<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Lie To Me by Wetislandinthenorthatlantic</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27874462">Lie To Me</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wetislandinthenorthatlantic/pseuds/Wetislandinthenorthatlantic'>Wetislandinthenorthatlantic</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Awesome Molly Hooper, F/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft Holmes Has Feelings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 14:27:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>22,634</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27874462</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wetislandinthenorthatlantic/pseuds/Wetislandinthenorthatlantic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Anthea is dead which has made Mycroft Holmes irritable and unhinged. With an important state visit coming up in few months Lady Smallwood decides getting Dr Molly Hooper to be his PA is just what he needs. He is not so convinced.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mycroft Holmes/Molly Hooper</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>88</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Anthea Is Dying</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clio_Trismegista/gifts">Clio_Trismegista</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello! This is a gift for Cliotris as a welcome back to the fandom! They gave me one of my first prompts -- Mycroft and Molly shouting at each other. Here you are my friend -- more of that Mollcrost angst you love so much! I hope you enjoy it :)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The two-inch, four-ring binder lay on the table between them. It was glossy white; sturdy board covers encased in a coating of plastic. Not a flimsy two-ring binder in some garish colour favoured by secondary students nationwide. Mycroft made a rough calculation; the binder contained 337 pages, this was allowing for various sheets to be in plastic page protectors. With so many pages inside, the binder cover was nearly horizontal to the tabletop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft could see sections delineated by coloured tabs. He knew the front page would contain a detailed explanation of the colours, the divisions, and how it all worked—  how he worked. How his days were organised, who he spoke to, who he didn’t. Passwords, timelines, roadmaps, all of it would be there. All of Anthea’s tricks of the trade, written down, tagged and cross-references for easy access.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anthea gave him a pointed look and pursed her lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The next person will need this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft let his gaze settle on Anthea. At the back of her jawline, there was a small patch of yellow skin peeking through the unusually thick layer of foundation she had put on this morning. Her eyes were not their usual bright green; they were dull and tired. The cup of chamomile tea he had made her sat untouched, far enough away she couldn’t smell it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You act as if you have never left your desk.” Mycroft gestured to the binder. “This has not been needed when you have taken annual leave.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anthea reached across the table and laid a hand on Mycroft’s arm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mycroft, it’s not the same. I’m dying.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes flicked instantly to the window, suddenly the room felt stuffy and three degrees too warm. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t say that out loud. I can’t hear this.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop being melodramatic. Technically we are all dying. And secondly, you have the best oncology team in London. You will be back, ordering me around before you know it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anthea managed a weak smile, but Mycroft knew by the sadness in her eyes she didn’t believe it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Dropping his gaze to his cup Mycroft ran a finger around the rim absentmindedly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How is your spouse coping?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Laughter filled the room, and for a brief moment, Anthea’s eyes sparkled. The tension in the room was broken.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are asking after Hillary! Things really are bad, aren’t they?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I try to be more compassionate, and all I get is ridicule.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a smile on Mycroft’s face as he chided her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For the record, I do not hate her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For the record, she does hate you.” Anthea brought the cup close to her lips then had a second thought and put it back down on the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She has been at her wit's end for the past two days. I have sent her out with instructions to buy some cheerful bedclothes for me to wear in the hospital.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Should you wish me to return the hideous things she purchases at Primark and stop by Liberty instead, do let me know,” replied Mycroft with a wicked smirk on his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be horrible.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a shrug of his shoulders, Mycroft raised the cup to his lips and took a sip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You would be more understanding if you had someone special in your life.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The snort caused the tea to be inhaled into Mycroft’s windpipe, and he doubled over with a coughing fit. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Anthea moving with some difficulty to the sink for a glass of water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He drank the glass presented to him and thanked her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Apologies. I thought you were being treated for cancer, not transitioning into my mother.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anthea looked down her nose at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Molly likes you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She is Sherlock’s friend.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She deals with your baggage.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“By baggage are you referring to my drug-addict brother, my sister who tried to kill her, or my all-consuming career?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A grimace crossed Anthea’s face as she took her seat, and once again, the pair stared at each other over the binder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Enough. You are still my PA, not my life coach. Dr Hooper is a-” Mycroft paused while a list of descriptors flowed through his mind: </span>
  <em>
    <span>companion, Allie, comrade, colleague, buddy.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Comfortable acquaintance of mine- nothing more.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anthea took a tiny sip of tea.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Promise me you will at least think about it. And if an opportunity arises- take it. She won’t be around forever.” The pleading timber of the statement caused Mycroft’s chest to constrict. He hoped a change in subject would make it easier to breathe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When will you be admitted?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This afternoon. The first operation is tomorrow morning. The next will be hopefully ten days later.” Anthea fiddled with the cuff of her cardigan, her gaze bouncing around the kitchen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am assuming the usual protocol.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hated this part, really, really hated this part. Once Hillary had entered the scene as soon as Anthea was on leave, there was complete radio silence until she was sitting back at her desk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anthea looked away and nodded. “It’s— she is—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know. She wants you all to herself. Quite right too.” He forced a smile and sighed deeply. “I should go before she gets home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Standing next to the kitchen table they looked at each other awkwardly for a moment before Anthea opened up her arms and with a rush of relief, Mycroft allowed his arms to fold around his PA for the third time ever in their acquaintance. He laid his head on top of hers and held her, ignoring her silent sobs until she let go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Later that evening, Mycroft would erase the smell of illness from this memory and replace it with Anthea’s usual perfume- a delicate scent with hints of lime, juniper and rose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Goodbye, Mycroft. Be good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anthea laid her hand lightly on the binder and looked expectantly at Mycroft. The realisation </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s too heavy for her to pick up, c</span>
  </em>
  <span>aused a sob to tickle at his nose. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Giving her a weak smile, Mycroft shook his head gently before he quickly slipped out the kitchen door.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Anthea Is Dead</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Glancing at the large clock on the wall of the St. Bart’s morgue Molly sighed. It was only 14:30— she still had hours to go until her workday was over. Her stomach growled to indicate it too would rather be somewhere other than standing here, contemplating the riveting choices of mid-week paperwork or deal with the next deceased in the unending queue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Molly made a deal with her stomach. One more autopsy then she would take a quick break for tea and a slice of cake from the canteen before the paperwork. Her stomach stopped rumbling as if in the agreement of the plan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After washing her hands, tightening her ponytail and putting on a fresh pair of purple disposable gloves, Molly grabbed the folder out of the tray hanging on the wall marked “DRAWER 6”. She paused while bouncing the folder in her hands, playing her usual game— trying to guess what was waiting for her behind the heavy square door of the body fridge. A small smug smile settled on her face. This month she was doing really well with an accuracy rate of 73.8%. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The lightness of the folder told her there had not been a lot of intervention by the hospital medical team.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Male, 17-22, complications due to stab wound.” Knife crime was on the rise in the capital with the only upside being easy afternoon autopsies for the staff at morgues across London.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Opening up the document, Molly quickly scanned the info page. A soft “Oh.” slipped from her lips before she could stop it. The deep shuddering breath that followed shook Molly as her hand reached out feeling the smooth, cold metal of the door before she slumped against it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Molly’s eyes moved to the top of the page where she started reading again, this time slowly:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Deceased: Jones, Anthea Theadora</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Diagnosis: Metastatic breast cancer</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marital Status: M</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spouse: Jones, Hillary Victoria</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Occupation: Civil Servant, Foreign and Commonwealth Office</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Merely a dozen or so pages of notes confirmed the disease had been found at quite a late stage. There would have been little that could have been done to stop its relentless progression.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anthea had gone from diagnosis to death in only seven weeks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Molly’s stomach grumbled at the delay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yea, I know you want tea just give me a moment okay,” she mumbled out loud. For a brief moment, she imagined closing the folder, replacing it in the rack and moving on to Drawer 7. When Nish started his shift at 16:30, he would discover the folder left in the rack created a break in the sequence, and he would do the autopsy on Drawer 6. It was an unspoken code among Bart’s pathologists. If you have a connection with the deceased, you don’t even have to ask, just leave it for the next shift.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taking a deep breath, Molly steeled herself. No, she would do it. She owed it to Sherlock and Mycroft to take care of Anthea herself. Turning the handle of the door, she opened it fully and pulled out the steel drawer on which the former Anthea Jones lay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>//</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Molly looked down at Anthea and her usual serene expression one last time.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>How in the world can you look so pulled together and be dead?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Not a hair out of place. Not even after an autopsy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The only hint something was wrong was that Anthea didn’t have her beloved Blackberry in her hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last time Molly had seen Anthea alive had been last summer— when Sherlock had gone on a drug spree and nearly killed himself for the third time in as many months.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anthea had arrived at 221b Baker Street looking like she had stepped out of a yogurt advertisement: matching casual activewear, glossy hair pulled back into a high ponytail, bright eyes, fresh face with a light touch of makeup. No hint it was in fact 02:30. She had made coffee and bacon-egg sandwiches for the private ambulance team, before departing an hour later leaving Molly, who had single-handedly re-started Sherlock’s heart, feeling frumpy, sweaty, and self-conscious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In fairness, Anthea had never been anything less than lovely to her, and somehow this made Molly’s feelings of inadequacy when she compared herself to Anthea even worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Two years younger than me. Married, and probably already on the property ladder. I’m still renting and haven’t had a steady boyfriend for months.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Molly took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Goodbye Anthea. Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on him.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Pulling the white sheet over Anthea Molly frowned wondering where in the world that thought had come from. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>// </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The queue in the canteen was long. Pulling out her phone Molly tapped it a few times and held it up to her ear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How long is the queue?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello to you too, Sherlock. 17 people why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s nice to know how much time I need to help you to kill before I can get back to doing what I am doing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No need to be rude Sherlock. I am actually calling to find out why you didn’t tell me about Anthea.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What about Anthea?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on, Sherlock. I’m not in the mood to play games. Especially after the surprise for me behind door number six today.” Molly forced a laugh into the silence on the other side of the phone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Molly you making even less sense than usual.” Sherlock sounded irritated and distracted. Suddenly Molly could feel sadness welling up in the back of her throat. Sherlock was often rude to her, but today he was being downright mean.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s dead. I know you two weren’t the best of friends and you hate your brother, but you could have at least warned me.” The autopsy had been bearable only because she believed she was doing a friend a favour— apparently not. Pulling a tissue from her sleeve, Molly wiped her nose, her cheeks prickling with embarrassment. No good deed goes unpunished.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was then she noticed there had been no harsh response, only silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sherlock?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, yea. I’m—, Yea. I’m still here. So, ah, are you sure? I mean-- when--” The sharp edge of Sherlock’s voice had vanished completely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh crap,” Molly’s heart sank.  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. How could you not know? I mean your brother knows everything. I was sure he would have—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is Mycroft there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Molly’s eyes frantically darted around the canteen, checking to make sure Mycroft Holmes wasn’t standing in a corner leaning on his umbrella calmly waiting to be discovered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. No, I haven’t seen him for weeks.” Molly heard Sherlock swear under his breath before the line went dead.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. An Offer of Help</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Come on, Sherlock. Pick up.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> <span>Letting out a sigh, Molly hung up her phone and drained the last swallow of tea from the takeaway cup. Catching a glimpse of her watch, Molly was startled, realising she didn’t have any more time to waste on Sherlock. She would try again after work to apologise and hope he would explain why Anthea’s death was a surprise.</span></p><p> <span>Opening up the top folder Molly pulled out her Dictaphone and began the slow process of cataloguing the lab stock. The midweek log was a chore at the best of times, but this afternoon, when all Molly wanted to do was get through this shift so she could track down Sherlock, it was almost unbearable. </span></p><p> <span>Twenty minutes before the night shift was due, Molly heard the distinctive click of an umbrella tip on the linoleum hallway leading to the pathology lab accompanied by the faint squeak given off by Sherlock’s left shoe. A knowing smile, brought on by the relief she felt settled on Molly’s face. Two weeks ago, Sherlock had spent 45 minutes walking up and down the hallway trying out different gaits to make the tell-tale sound disappear, but in the end, he had given up. </span><em><span>At least I won’t have to call in one of my favours with the homeless network to track him down tonight.</span></em></p><p> <span>She heard the door to the outer lab open.</span></p><p> <span>“Hi guys, I’ll be right there,” Molly called through the half-closed office door. As she made her final notes on the clipboard and put the Dictaphone in the tray for transcribing Molly anticipated the way she and Mycroft often greeted each other.</span></p><p> <span>It had started the second time she had helped Sherlock during a drug binge. After days of looking, the Homeless Network had found Sherlock in a filthy crack den near Kings Cross. Molly rang Mycroft as soon as she had positively ID-ed the soiled male lying on the urine-soaked mattress.  A mere 15 minutes after they had hung up, Mycroft arrived with a private ambulance.</span></p><p> <span>Mycroft Holmes, in his bespoke suit, had stood among a half-dozen passed out junkies. Faeces covered the walls and needles covered the floor. No matter what was going on around him, Mycroft gave the impression of being calm, cool and collected. Molly liked that. </span></p><p>
  <span>“Miss Hooper, fancy seeing you here. We must stop meeting like this.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The phase was delivered with such subtle sarcasm it had instantly brought a smile to Molly’s face as she imagined the pair bumping into each other at a benefit gala for the National Theatre instead of her kneeling in vomit while trying to keep an agitated Sherlock in the recovery position.</span>
</p><p> <span>“Lovely to see you too, Mycroft. Remind me, how long has it been?” Molly’s response had slightly startled Mycroft; clearly, he hadn’t expected her to continue this charade.</span></p><p> <span>“Forty-seven days and six hours.” The time that had passed since Sherlock’s last incident always rolled off his tongue as quickly as naming the day of the week.</span></p><p> <span>The challenge and response were followed by a shared look that said: </span><em><span>Here we go again.</span></em></p><p> <span>Molly was drying her hands on a rough blue paper towel as she left her office. The sight of the brothers caused the used ball of paper to remain awkwardly in her hand as she froze in the doorway.</span></p><p> <span>Once, when Sherlock was closer to death than life, Molly had seen Mycroft briefly squeeze his brothers’ hand. It was the only physical interaction she had ever seen between the brothers, and despite his unconsciousness, Sherlock had winced at the touch. </span></p><p> <span>Today, Sherlock was at Mycroft’s elbow; their bodies brushing each other in support.</span></p><p> <span>Molly waited for Mycroft to speak. To greet her in the usual way; to give her some indication that things were alright no matter how bad they looked.  Instead, he dipped his red-rimmed eyes to the floor. </span></p><p> <span>“I’m sorry for your loss.” The words come out in a whisper before Molly can stop them.</span></p><p> <span>In response, Mycroft’s fingers raised from the handle of his umbrella, followed by an audible swallow.</span></p><p> <span>Sherlock was subdued. No snide remarks about her outfit. No requests for coffee. He just stood there, standing far too close to his brother for either to tolerate it under normal circumstances.</span></p><p> <span>“Did you do the autopsy?” The question was from Sherlock.</span></p><p> <span>“Yes. I could have said no because I know her. Knew her, sorry.” The prickles of embarrassment, warming her cheeks made Molly pause. “But I thought you both would be happier if I did it.” Molly bit her lip, waiting for a reaction.</span></p><p> <span>“Much appreciated.” Mycroft’s voice was soft and husky. “May I see her?” The request was uncertain.</span></p><p> <span>“Ah, sure, sure but I’ve already signed off the paperwork, so I need to stay in the room with you.” Sherlock nodded silently in agreement as the pair followed Molly into the morgue storage room. Anthea’s body was pulled out of Drawer 6, and Molly moved the white sheet down to her shoulders.</span></p><p> <span>As he looked down at Anthea, Mycroft’s hand restlessly opened and closed on his umbrella handle.  His nose began to run. He pulled out a white cloth handkerchief and blew his nose before turning away.</span></p><p> <span>“Will you be collecting her things?”</span></p><p> <span>“No. Hilary will collect them. It’s best if you don’t mention we were here. She is not particularly keen on either of us.” Sherlock gave Molly a forced smile.</span></p><p> <span>Nodding in agreement Molly repositioned the white sheet and pushed the drawer back into the wall and closed the door. She then turned to face Mycroft who was still facing the wall leaning heavily on his umbrella.</span></p><p> <span>“Mycroft if you need anything,” Molly’s tone was gentle and filled with sympathy. “If there is something I can do--”</span></p><p> <span>Mycroft whipped around startling Molly, causing her to take a step back.</span></p><p> <span>“Lie to me.” His voice was strained, pleading through gritted teeth as he slowly walked towards her. “Please god tell me this is a replay of your most famous party trick.” Mycroft’s watery eyes darted frantically around the morgue until they landed on Sherlock with a weight.</span></p><p> <span>“Anthea and Hilary have already boarded a private jet to the other side of the world and a new life free of— me.” Inhaling sharply through his nose Mycroft swallowed all signs of any emotion. </span></p><p> <span>“Tell me.”</span></p><p> <span>Sadness welled up inside her as Molly’s jaw dropped open. The silence in the morgue made it feel like everyone, alive or dead, was waiting for a response.</span></p><p> <span>Molly weakly shook her head and shrugged her shoulders.</span></p><p> <span>“I’m so sorry, Mycroft. No tricks this time.”</span></p><p> <span>Mycroft’s head dropped  as he turned and slowly walked out of the morgue and back through the pathology lab. Sherlock turned on his heels and quickly followed.</span></p><p> <span>“Sherlock,” Molly called following the pair, “If you want me to sit with him tonight—“ Turning back Sherlock gave Molly a weak smile and a nod before catching up with his brother.</span></p><p> <span>“Honestly. Call me if you need me.”</span></p><p> <span>The lab door closed behind the Holmes brothers, and Molly stood watching them walk down the corridor side-by-side, the tip of Mycroft’s umbrella dragging on the ground.</span></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. 13 Days Later</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The wood-paneled elevator only had one button in it, and currently, it was glowing green. Pulling up her left sleeve a fraction of an inch Molly tried to look at her watch casually, not letting on to the others in the elevator she was on the verge of having a panic attack.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Less than 30 minutes ago it had been a typical Wednesday afternoon. Coffee and a quick catch up with Meena in the canteen. As she walked back to work, she had been thinking about her next task of the day: investigating why Mr Patel had seemingly died from heart failure after suffering a broken ankle last weekend.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Passing through the pathology lab double doors, she had stopped dead in her tracks. Walter, Mycroft’s driver, was talking to her boss Mike. Despite the warm greeting from both men, Molly’s heart sank. When Sherlock was in trouble, it was Walter who picked her up. It had been 13 days since Anthea’s autopsy and 13 days of radio silence from the Holmes brothers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After collecting her bag, Mike bid her and Walter a cheery farewell.  He told her not to worry about Mr Patel; he would let her know what was discovered. Molly sighed and gave Mike a weak goodbye, as she wondered how long she would be gone from work this time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So what’s silly old Sherlock gone and done now.” London was passing quickly outside of Mycroft’s car as visions of catastrophic events played out in Molly’s mind. If Sherlock had been so insensitive as to go on a drug binge  now considering the emotional upheaval Mycroft must be going through</span>
  <span>—</span>
  <span> she wasn’t entirely sure he deserved her help today.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Walter didn’t reply as the turnoff to Baker Street was passed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Letting her head fall back onto the headrest Molly knew if Walter wasn’t talking, it must be pretty bad. The knot in Molly’s stomach appeared after the turnoff to Mycroft’s Whitehall office was also passed, it grew more prominent when the street containing Mycroft’s city flat was ignored and grew tighter when the car didn’t even slow down outside the Diogenes Club.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, now I’m getting scared. Walter, where are you taking me?” Sitting up straight, Molly strained at the seatbelt as she nervously looked out of the car trying to figure out where the car was taking her. The vehicle was now speeding down Millbank.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You have been sent for.” Walter met her eyes in the rear-view mirror. “I’m sorry Miss Molly, I can’t say anything more.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Moments later, after crossing Vauxhall Bridge, Mycroft’s car easily passed into the underground entrance of the MI6 building at Vauxhall Cross. No one seemed to care that Molly was in the car, without Mycroft.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pulling up to a set of glass doors, Walter stopped the car and turned around to face Molly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t forget your purse.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His door was opened, as was Molly’s, and as soon as they exited, Mycroft’s car was driven away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Walter held open one of the glass doors for Molly then he signed a clipboard held by a man just inside the door. Molly expected to be given a sizable red badge with the words VISITOR MUST BE ACCOMPANIED. That was what she was given when she went to Mycroft’s office. Molly was still looking around the marble-covered lobby wondering where her pass would appear from when Walter cleared his throat and smiled at her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Please, Miss Molly this way,” Walter gestured across the foyer to a gentleman wearing a navy blue suit who was holding an elevator door open for them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man in the suit entered the elevator after Walter and Molly and pressed the only button, starting the elevator's ascent.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>//</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stepping out of the elevator, Molly gasped. Walking on the floor covered with thick green carpet made her feel like she was on a cloud while the floor to ceiling windows provided one of the most stunning views of London she had ever seen.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was a conference room with frosted glass walls to the right. A few people were milling around outside its open door. To the left were wooden walls that Molly guessed to be an office. Near the door sat a woman behind a minimal elegant desk. Each of these rooms would enjoy the same spectacular view as the one in front of her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Between the rooms was a small circular wooden table with a large formal bouquet on it making this area look more like a posh hotel than the top floor in one of the most secret government agencies in the world.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is Mycroft here?” Molly whispered to Walter, who only gave her a weak smile in response.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Walter walked over to a woman sitting at the desk.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dr Margaret Hooper,” said Walter very officially, making Molly swallow hard. She had no idea Walter knew her actual name, and she had never heard him call her Doctor before. The woman stood up and extended her hand to Molly as she smiled. ”Hello Dr Hooper welcome to Vauxhall Cross.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hesitantly Molly shook the woman’s hand and uttered a meek, “Hello, thank you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The office door opened, and an older blond woman appeared.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hello Dr Hooper, I’m Lady Elizabeth Smallwood. I have so been looking forward to meeting you, please, come into my office. Thank you, Walter.” After a curt nod towards Walter, Lady Smallwood had turned back and entered her office. The concerned look Molly gave Walter was returned with a small smile and nod.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Go ahead. It will be fine. I’ll be right here.” Walter took a seat in the waiting area near the elevator.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Molly went into Lady Smallwood’s office, and the door closed behind her.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. An offer that can't be refused</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sitting in front of the large wooden desk Molly couldn’t help but wonder why the furniture wasn’t arranged differently so the office’s occupant could enjoy the view instead of having London to her back all day.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It is a wonderful view, isn’t it?” Lady Smallwood was standing by a small table in the corner of her office. A few decades ago it would have housed bottles of alcohol, an ice bucket and highball glasses. Today it held an instant kettle, milk jug and a tea box.  Lady Smallwood’s attention was focused on making a cup of tea.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You needn’t look so scared. Despite what my staff say I don’t bite. Tea?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, thank you. Am I in some sort of trouble?” Molly blurted out as her mind raced through the last few weeks trying to figure out if she had done something to cause this — whatever this is.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No. Of course not.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then, why am I here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You offered to help,” replied Lady Smallwood simply as she sat down in her chair and took a sip of tea.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The words roamed around in Molly’s brain but found no memory to attach to. Shrugging her shoulders and shaking her head, Molly remained as confused as to when this discussion started. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lady Smallwood took a deep breath.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It is my understanding that 13 days ago you did an autopsy on one of my employees — Anthea Jones.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” Molly answered hesitantly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And three hours and 18 minutes after you signed off your report there were two visitors to see the body.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Molly’s face burned red. “Yes,” she answered weakly. “But, I— I didn’t leave the room. They were never alone with the body.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lady Smallwood held up her hand and shook her head. “Dr Hooper, Molly, I have said you are not in trouble— but Mycroft Holmes is.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Molly’s mouth dropped open to form a perfect ‘O’.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Anthea was your employee? Didn’t she work for Mycroft? Oh, that means—“</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lady Smallwood held Molly’s gaze as the right side of her mouth twitched up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, even the hubristic Mycroft Holmes has a boss. Now, when the pair were leaving the morgue you offered help should Mycroft need it, correct?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, yes. Yes, I did.” Nodding her head, Molly felt a bit of anxiety melting away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mycroft is indeed in need of aid, and I think you are the most suitable for the job.” Opening up a folder on her desk Lady Smallwood glanced down at the contents before looking back up at Molly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Me? Are you sure? I actually don’t know Mycroft very well, and I’m not sure he would be interested—“</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you mean you don’t know Mycroft ‘very well’? When Sherlock nearly ODs it’s you he calls.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, well—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lady Smallwood levelled her gaze on Molly. “In the last 12 months, you have spent the night at Mycroft’s house seven times.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Molly could feel the white-hot prickles of embarrassment on her cheeks.  “Yes, but not like that, I mean, he calls me when Sherlock gets into trouble and I go over to his house to help.  So, yea I guess I ended up at his house overnight, but it’s not like we were in the same room. I mean, we were, but only when we were awake. It’s not like we were ever together, together—“</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My point still stands. Not only does Mycroft allow you into his home, but he also allows you to spend the evening when necessary. He and I have known each other for decades, and I’ve only made it as far at the front door.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Molly watched Lady Smallwood look at the document in front of her and wondered if it listed Molly’s usual shampoo appearing in the guest room after the second time she stayed over, the expensive bubble bath waiting after the fifth night and the fact that she had left a pair of leggings in the bottom drawer of the dresser after the seventh night.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Molly sat quietly for a moment before asking “What’s happened to him?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lady Smallwood took a deep breath.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It will come as no surprise to you, Mycroft is taking Anthea’s death very hard. He and I have been in some, shall we say, challenging situations over the years and I have never seen him like this. His mood is foul. And at the moment, in his eyes, no one can do anything correctly. In the past 13 days, he has been through 17 PAs. Mycroft Holmes has always been firm but fair, some might say severe, but the recent verbal lashings he has been subjecting his associates to is unprecedented.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Molly snorted. “Sounds like he needs a tranquillizer gun.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“With your medical qualification and as his new PA If you see fit to use such means it will be authorised.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Molly waited for Lady Smallwood to crack a smile, to laugh at her joke— but she didn’t.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Molly’s eyes grew wide. “You’re serious.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” was Lady Smallwood's simple answer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait. What? You want me to take over as Mycroft’s PA?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Molly’s head was shaking even before the words came out of her mouth. “But I’m not good with people. That’s why I work in the pathology lab and spend my days in the morgue.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t have to be good with people. You only have to be good with him.” Lady Smallwood gave Molly a pointed look.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes— but I don’t —“</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You will be generously compensated for your secondment. There is a wardrobe allowance, use of a car and driver. And you will have access to personnel needed to do any personal tasks required so you can focus on your job.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But I don’t know how to be a PA.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This is much more than simply an operational role— Mycroft Holmes is adrift, and someone needs to get him back on an even keel before he falls overboard completely and takes this island’s government with him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can’t—“</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dr Hooper. Your country needs you. There is a very sensitive state visit in a few months. I need everyone operating to their best ability. Get Mycroft Holmes through this event. Then you’ll be free to return to your nice quiet morgue. Your job will be waiting for you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And if I don’t? Don’t manage to get him sorted out in time. What happens to me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Failure is not an option Molly.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Closing her eyes, Molly took a deep breath. Slowly Molly’s shoulders fell as she remembered how deflated Mycroft had looked the last time she had seen him. He really did need her help. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay. Fine.” She weakly threw up her hands in defeat. “Do I have to dress in black as Anthea did?” Molly asked with a resigned air.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A look of shock crossed Lady Smallwood’s face but didn’t settle. Instead, the right corner of her mouth tugged upwards.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, of course not.  The only black outfit you have ever had on is that ill-fitting dress you wore to your grandmother’s funeral last year. Even if you take into account your clear sorrow from losing your beloved Nana black doesn’t suit you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wha- How did you—? Never mind.” Molly pushed all of the questions out of her mind and instead just rolled her eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dress code is business smart. There will be a rail of,” Lady Smallwood’s gaze scanned Molly from top to bottom, “suitable clothes and accessories waiting in your flat this evening. You are free to keep whatever you want. If there is something else for your wardrobe you wish, add it to your expense report, and you’ll be reimbursed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Looking down at her frumpy clothes, all purchased from various charity shops, Molly felt a slight pang of self-consciousness. She had never had to worry about what she wore to work before. The dead didn’t care and most of the day her clothes were hidden under a lab coat anyway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I guess my usual charity couture won’t do.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shaking her head gently, Lady Smallwood remained silent.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay.” Letting out another deep sigh Molly sat up straighter in her chair. There was no getting out of this, so she had better make the best of it. While she expected some quite prim and proper suits waiting for her in the wardrobe offering, there was a small hope of a colourful wrap-dress or two she could wear on Fridays. She would look for the bright spots, and she would get through this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So when do I start?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sudden shouting in the reception area and the sound of something shattering stopped Lady Smallwood from answering Molly’s question.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Flashing Molly a worried look Lady Smallwood quickly rounded her desk and opened her office door. The sound of Mycroft shouting at the top of his voice drew Molly off her chair, and she followed Lady Smallwood out of her office.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dark streaks of tea were running down the plate-glass window puddling on the floor, making it look like the Thames had developed an odd tributary. Lady Smallwood’s assistant, on the verge of tears, was on her knees picking up a shattered teacup while Mycroft was slouching in one of the chairs flanked by Walter and the man in the blue suit from the elevator.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The shock of seeing Mycroft unhinged flushed Molly’s system with adrenaline. Racing back into Lady Smallwood’s office, she quickly flicked through the tea packets, her anxiety slightly abating as she found what she needed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>While she willed the water to boil faster, Molly strained to listen to the exchange in the other room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is there a problem, Mycroft?” Molly could hear the forced smile in Lady Smallwood’s voice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was offered tea, and I was given swamp water,” spat Mycroft.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I am sorry to hear that. Perhaps you would like to come to my office. We can discuss this and the recent challenges you have been having finding a new assistant.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is that why you called me here? To tell me to behave? WELL, IT IS NOT GOING TO WORK!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Taking a deep breath and forcing herself to stop trembling Molly quickly walked back into the reception area, silently moving past Lady Smallwood. Walter moved back a fraction to allow her access to Mycroft; his cheeks were flushed, and he was sitting back in the chair his left hand rubbing his temples</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hi, Mycroft.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft parted his fingers to look at Molly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked through gritted teeth.</span>
</p>
<p><span>“It’s nearly 3 pm, so I’ve made you a cup of your afternoon</span> <span>tea.”</span></p>
<p>
  <span>Molly gave Mycroft a soft smile as she held the cup and saucer to him. Lady Smallwood, Walter and Blue Suited Elevator Man all tensed, worried about a second outburst.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No honey so I put in 2 and a half teaspoons of sugar, just the way you like it.” Molly kept her voice bright, even and calm.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tea?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ceylon Pekoe for the base and Assam for two slow dunks.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hesitantly Mycroft took the cup and gave it a deep investigative sniff before drinking it greedily.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As he did the veneer of stress seeped out of him, and he visibly relaxed, finishing the cup in a half dozen gulps.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you.” A calm and satiated Mycroft appeared when the teacup was lowered to the saucer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The tension in the reception area had been released, and for a moment, normality had been restored.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jolly well done,” whispered Elevator Man to Molly under his breath. Molly felt a warm glow under her rib cage. None of the corpses had ever complimented her work.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mycroft, Molly,” Lady Smallwood was gesturing to her open office door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rolling his eyes, Mycroft pushed himself out of the chair and dragged himself across the room like an errant schoolboy going into the headmistress’s office. Before the door, Lady Smallwood flicked her chin at her assistant.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry,” muttered Mycroft under his breath with a huff of indignation before entering Lady Smallwood's office.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Breaking the News</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Setting herself down in her chair Lady Smallwood glanced down at the folder in front of her and she felt a twinge of sadness thinking back to the last time she had seen Anthea alive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>//</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the request came through from Anthea for a private meeting, Lady Smallwood knew something serious was on the horizon. Such an unorthodox appeal was unprecedented, but given the circumstances it was indulged. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Miss Jones, what is it that you wish to urgently discuss? Now is not the time for you to be worrying about anything work related.” Lady Smallwood’s eyes glanced around the private hospital room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anthea had been in the hospital less than an hour but was already tethered to the bed by a number of thin monitoring cables and clear tubes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ma’am, it is unlikely I will make it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lady Smallwood’s gaze landed heavily on Anthea as she took a deep breath understanding in an instant why she had been called. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does he know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He happens to be conveniently ignoring the facts.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I remember what he was like before you. Unbearable is the most polite word that comes to mind. We had his PAs on a rota. And most insisted on hazard pay. But what can be done now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As long as you get her, he’ll be fine-- it will all be fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who?” Lady Smallwood’s mind quickly flicked through all of the PA options and couldn’t think of a single one that would last more than a morning with that man. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anthea took a deep breath and her gaze settled somewhere out of the window. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lady Smallwood didn’t press. It was obvious, even to someone who wasn’t trained in observation that Anthea was about to betray her boss. Once it was said, it couldn’t be unsaid.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Molly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dr Hooper? Sherlock’s odd friend?” Lady Smallwood couldn’t keep the frown off her face. “I don’t expect she could stand more than an afternoon with him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anthea motioned over to her side table at the folder lying just out of her reach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Take a look.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lady Smallwood rounded the bed and picked up the folder; her face still held the frown.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first sheet was a report covering the last 12 months of interaction between Mycroft Holmes and Dr. Margaret Hooper; things no one saw unless they had been watching. Molly dropping everything to help Sherlock whenever Mycroft asked. Mycroft’s quiet attention to Molly’s safety, despite the fact Sherlock had returned from the dead years ago. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s a doctor. I don’t doubt her intelligence, but is she suited for this?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It has all been documented. Everything. All that she will need to know.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I understand,” sighed Lady Smallwood. “There is a plan, but you need me to execute it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anthea smiled weakly and nodded her head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes ma’am. If you will turn to the next page—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taking a deep breath Lady Smallwood flicked to the next page, her eyes scanning it quickly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a mission roadmap which began with Anthea’s autopsy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>//</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The folder she left the hospital with that day now contained more than two dozen sheets of paper including photographs from the security camera in the morgue and a transcript of the conversation between Molly, Mycroft and Sherlock on the day of Anthea’s autopsy. The offer of help had been there, just as Anthea had said it would be. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What an unlikely pair</span>
  </em>
  <span> drifted through Lady Smallwood’s mind as she surveyed them. Molly had reverted to her archetype of over-achiever with an inferiority complex. It was as if she was once again sitting in the third row from the back of the med school lecture hall; shoulders slightly hunched, eyes fixed on the speaker, her right hand absent-mindedly picking at her cuticles on the left.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And next to Molly, Mycroft was hardly sitting— it looked more like his tall frame had been poured into the chair; his legs and arms at haphazard angles. A far cry from the usual impeccable air surrounding Mycroft Holmes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The back of Mycroft’s hair was uncombed, and he looked exhausted. Lady Smallwood noted a chunk of stubble on his jaw that had not been shaved this morning.  His suit coat was open, and he wore a contrasting waistcoat; hardly a surprise since it looked like he had gained about ten pounds since she last saw him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A disgruntled sigh came from Mycroft as his eyes flicked to Molly then to Lady Smallwood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I refuse to be chastised in front of a civilian.” Mycroft’s tone was pleasant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not going to scold you Mycroft. You know me better than that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft remained motionless, only blinking to indicate he was still alive.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yes, scolding would only put a strike against my name that would last far longer than this episod</span>
  </em>
  <span>e, thought Lady Smallwood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As you know we have a very sensitive state visit with the </span>
  <span>Koreans in three months</span>
  <span>. In adherence to the previously agreed timeline, this is the week we kick-off our preparations.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft let out a sigh, and his hand dropped from propping up his chin to the arm of his chair before glancing over at Molly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“With all due respect, Lady Smallwood, do you feel it right to be discussing high-level details of a state visit while Dr Hooper is still in the room? I promise I’ll be a good boy; she can wait outside.” His tone was positively dripping with sarcasm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Actually Mycroft, Molly will be heavily involved in the visit, that is why I sent for her today.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lady Smallwood’s gaze dropped once again to the folder to provide support— it was all here; how it was all going to work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft let out a snort filled with indignation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am not a cadaver in need of an autopsy or a sociopath with a drug problem. What succour can she give me? Or is this your plan Alicia, to drive me to an early grave by having my little brother’s friend follow me around making my afternoon tea until I decide I can’t take it anymore and top myself?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lady Smallwood gave Mycroft a pointed look.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Apparently just having her in the room is enough to soothe a savage beast. Isn’t it interesting that since you discovered Molly was here, you haven’t raised your voice once?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was Mycroft’s turn to glare.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mycroft,” Lady Smallwood started with a sigh “in the last 13 days, 17 assistants assigned to you have resigned. Of those, 11 have been reduced to actual tears and only due to an iron-clad employment agreement are six of those unable to press charges against you for verbal or emotional abuse. It is clear you are,” Lady Smallwood paused while the words </span>
  <em>
    <span>being an insufferable bastard </span>
  </em>
  <span>floated through her mind, as  “struggling with transitioning to a new assistant,” came out of her mouth instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft’s jaw clenched. “What in God’s name have you done?” The whispered words filled with venom caused Lady Smallwood and Molly to share a nervous glance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As the pool of possible assistants within our agency has now been depleted, I have had to widen my search. Mycroft, meet your new PA.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft doubled over in his chair and rubbed his face with his hands before looking at Molly, who shrugged her shoulders and gave him a sad smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am assuming if I offer to double whatever you have promised her in compensation, it will be seen as insubordination.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. You can not buy your way out of this with money or influence. I will not let you destroy your long and lauded career over a colleague who died of natural causes, so I suggest you use that extra-large brain of yours to figure out how you are going to play nice — and once the state visit is over, we will reevaluate the situation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft shot a quick glare at Molly before rolling his eyes and crossing his arms with a humph.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Molly, do you have anything to add?” asked Lady Smallwood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, Mycroft. I didn’t think when I offered to help you, that this would happen. I’ll— I’ll do what I can.” Molly finished with a nod, and Lady Smallwood was pleased to see some normal colour return to Molly’s face.  A bit of tension released between her shoulder blades. Bottom of page seven from the file had been correct</span>
  <em>
    <span> Mycroft won’t be at all pleased, but he won’t storm out when he hears the news. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now, shall we can begin our meeting—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um— excuse me, Lady Smallwood,” Molly was slightly raising her hand, causing Lady Smallwood to stop in mid-sentence. A quick smirk crossed Mycroft’s face as Lady Smallwood swallowed her irritation at being interrupted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If we are having a meeting, could I have a pen and paper— you know— to take notes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course. I should have offered,” Lady Smallwood quickly regained her composure, opened her drawer and pulled out a notepad and pen and handed them across the desk to Molly with a smile while Mycroft rolled his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft sat stock still and radiated rage for the next 45 minutes while Lady Smallwood brought Molly up to speed on the upcoming state visit from the Koreans.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. No One Can Replace Her</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Sitting in the back of Mycroft’s car Molly reread her four pages of handwritten notes then folded the two sheets of A4 twice along the creases before slipping the sheets into her purse. She shifted slightly in her seat and watched London pass slowly outside the car windows.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft was sitting next to her, and he hadn’t said a word since leaving Lady Smallwood’s office. Finally, the tension in the car was too much for Molly, and she let out a long sigh causing her shoulders to drop. She turned slightly, giving her a better view of Mycroft.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She had known him for years; they were undoubtedly more than acquaintances. Once, after the incident when Sherlock, while swinging for Mycroft, had accidentally given her a black eye, Mycroft had even sent her the most beautiful bouquet of purple hyacinth, iris, and yellow roses. But does one expensive bouquet and repeatedly saving someone’s brother’s life make you friends?  It’s not like they ever met up for a quick afternoon cup of coffee.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Look. This wasn’t my idea. And I don’t want you to think—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft raised his hand from his knee and made a slicing gesture with his long fingers as he turned his body away from Molly and looked out of his car window.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The rest of the journey continued in silence.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>//</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Familiar landmarks were passed as the car moved closer to its destination and Molly began mapping out her evening, wondering if the bottle of wine she had opened on the weekend would still be drinkable. Tonight she would need something more substantial than her usual cuppa after work. Glass of wine, shower and then TV— no— she shook her head to pull herself out of her regular weeknight routine.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After today her life wouldn’t be “the usual” for weeks. Maybe she would get her life back in a few months if she was lucky. If she managed to get this job done. The first order of business tonight should be going through the clothes Lady Smallwood had sent over to her flat. She needed to find a suitable outfit for tomorrow. Suddenly Molly’s mind was full of questions.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What time should I come into work?” The car had stopped in front of Molly’s flat. Mycroft gave no indication of hearing her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mycroft— tomorrow, what time should I—” Mycroft acting like a contortionist twisted in his seatbelt as far away from her question as possible.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Given the fact Mycroft had stopped communicating with her or anyone else over an hour ago, Molly gave up with a sigh and exited the car.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s usually in by 7:30 am so I would suggest 7:15 am at the latest. A car will be outside at 6:50 am,” whispered Walter while holding her door open. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you,” mouthed Molly in return.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At some point during the day, London’s weather had become as dull as Molly’s current mood. Walking to her flat, she shivered, the damp seeping through her thin jumper.  Grey clouds were blanketing the capital, making everything soggy but without any discernible precipitation. The haste of her departure from her office had caused her to leave her coat behind— hanging in her locker at the hospital.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ll get it tomorrow— Oh, wait. I’m not going to my office tomorrow.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Molly added ‘When will I get my coat?’ to the long list of questions filling her head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After putting her key in the lock and pushing the door, Molly could feel a presence close behind her, and she let out a shocked squeak as Mycroft rushed into her flat behind her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s going on? You scared me”! chided Molly, her hand moving to turn on the hall light. Mycroft grabbed her wrist, and she let out a small shriek. Molly, her heart-pounding, froze. She gritted her teeth and steeled herself, waiting for the sizzling stabs of agony from her wrist as it was crushed in Mycroft’s grip. Then she realised— there was no pain, but there was also no question she couldn’t freely move her arm anymore.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t,” came the terse command from Mycroft. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I swear to you Mycroft. This wasn’t my idea.” The words were a hoarse whisper; tears were filling the corners of Molly’s eyes as she sniffed to stop her nose from running.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No one can replace her.” In the dark hallway, Molly could see Mycroft’s shoulders moving up and down as he worked hard to keep sobs from escaping. His voice was razor-sharp.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know,” Molly whispered gently. She placed her free hand on his bicep and gave a light squeeze. She could feel the silent sobs shaking Mycroft; the sobs she had expected to see 13 days ago in the morgue when Sherlock had stood by his brother as they all stared down at Anthea.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>An embarrassed gasp escaped Mycroft before his grip lessened and he ducked quickly out of the hallway back into the dusk of rainy London, pulling the door closed behind him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Slumping against the wall in the darkness, Molly didn’t try to get her breath under control. She let it escape her as her head dropped into her hands.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>What have I done to deserve this?</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Molly wondered in the darkness of her hallway.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. The Obstinate Politician</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Molly nervously glanced at the clock on the wall. 7:22 am. She wiggled her toes in the new shoes and adjusted the belt on her dress. Today she was wearing a navy blue dress with subtle plaid print.</p>
<p>When Lady Smallwood had said there would be clothes waiting for her, Molly had imagined one or two modest dresses, a few high-necked blouses and boring trousers- all in somber colours. Instead, the rail in her flat was full of the sorts of clothes Molly would always look longingly at but never buy because she could never justify spending money on clothes to be covered up all day by a lab coat in the morgue.</p>
<p>There were also matching shoes, coats and bags— one for every day, one for important meetings and even an evening clutch. On the table next to the rail were a dozen plastic page protectors containing pages with images of the clothes made into outfits complete with notes about how to use the accessories Molly already owned.</p>
<p>Part of Molly wanted to question Lady Smallwood- exactly how long had she been planning this? But given the amount of work that had gone into the selecting of the outfits, let alone photographing the outfits, perhaps it would be best if she didn’t know.</p>
<p>At 7:29 am, Mycroft walked through the door. Molly was surprised to see his hair was slightly damp and his eyes still had some heaviness of sleep about them— giving the impression either his alarm hadn’t gone off or he had hit the snooze button one too many times.</p>
<p>Mycroft raised an eyebrow, and his glace swept her up and down.</p>
<p>“At least you look like PA. It’s a start,” he commented as passed by her desk and went into his office.</p>
<p>Grabbing a pen and notebook, Molly hurried in after him.</p>
<p>Mycroft slipped off his trench coat and hung it on the coat rack in the corner. He then settled himself in his chair. His eyes met Molly’s as she slowly lowered herself onto the edge of the chair opposite him. The pair stared at each other.</p>
<p>“What do you want me to do?” asked Molly.</p>
<p>“Usually, my PA tells me where I need to be and what I am expected to do when I get there.”</p>
<p>Molly’s fingers fiddled with the edge of her notebook.</p>
<p>“How do I find out where you should be?”</p>
<p>“No idea. I’m not a PA.” Mycroft’s words held no malice. They were quite matter of fact.</p>
<p>Swallowing the lump in her throat Molly quickly got up before the stress tears stinging the corners of her eyes appeared.</p>
<p>“I’m just going to go back to my desk to see if I can log into your schedule.”</p>
<p>Mycroft shrugged his shoulders as Molly fled the room.</p>
<p>//</p>
<p>The only success Molly had in her first hour as Mycroft’s PA had been to turn on the computer sitting at her desk. With no login details or passwords, it was not a surprise she could get no-where.</p>
<p>Sod this. Molly got up and headed down the corridor to make herself a cup of tea.</p>
<p>Standing in front of two brewing teas, Molly rolled her neck, trying to release some of the tension. It wasn’t yet even 9 a.m. At this rate, she feared she might not make it past lunch, let alone the three months she had agreed to.</p>
<p>“Hello.”</p>
<p>Molly gave a little jump at the greeting. Turning around, she found Blue Suit Man- the man who had operated the elevator and offered her a compliment outside Lady Smallwood's office yesterday.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” His smile was nervous and unsure.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry. It’s fine. I’m almost done-” Molly sputtered while reaching for a teaspoon to fish out the tea bags.</p>
<p>“Oh, I’m not here to make tea. Lady Smallwood asked me to check on you. To make sure-”</p>
<p>After she finished tapping the spoon on the cup rim, Molly dropped the utensil in with the other used spoons.</p>
<p>“Come to make sure he hasn’t duct-taped me to my chair?” A knowing smirk settled on Molly’s face.</p>
<p>“Mr Holmes has not been overly welcoming of his new assistants recently.”</p>
<p>“That is an understatement. Is there any chance you could help me get my computer sorted out?”</p>
<p>The Blue Suited Man reached past Molly and opened a cupboard. He then pulled out a plate and a sleeve of biscuits. Handing Molly a plate containing four biscuits Blue Suit Man nodded.</p>
<p>“I have it on good authority these are his favourite. Hopefully it will buy you some time while I call Christoph to get your computer sorted.”</p>
<p>//</p>
<p>Mycroft was reading a hardback book with his feet on his desk, ankles crossed, when Molly delivered the tea and biscuits. He didn’t even bother to look up as he muttered his thanks.</p>
<p>By the time Molly returned to the outer office, a short, overweight man was standing at her desk.</p>
<p>“I’m Christoph. Henry sent me. May I?”</p>
<p>The umpa-lumpa-esqe man was gesturing to Molly’s chair.</p>
<p>“If you can help, please-” pulling out her chair Molly stood back and let Christoph get to work.</p>
<p>//</p>
<p>Glancing up at the clock, Molly was amazed to discover it was nearly 1 pm. Christoph had managed to set her up with her login and password to the central system. And he had linked her email and schedule her phone.</p>
<p>The final piece of the puzzle Christoph needed was Mycroft’s signature on a form giving Molly access to his accounts.</p>
<p>Molly knocked on Mycroft’s door, pen and form in hand. She found Mycroft putting on his coat.</p>
<p>“Where are you going?”</p>
<p> “I’ll be at my club should you manage to figure out anything useful for me to do today. You may ring if anyone requires my services.”</p>
<p>“Wait!” Mycroft turned, and Molly thrust the form and pen out at him.</p>
<p>Eyeing the document with some suspicion for a few moments, Mycroft finally took the pen and scribbled his name on the appropriate line before handing the form back to Molly.</p>
<p>“What should I do about going to lunch?”</p>
<p>“We aren’t children here. Go to lunch when you are hungry. Rumours have reached me that there is a canteen in the basement— although I have never dined there in my 17 years of employment. There are also the usual High Street establishments within walking distance. Good day, Miss Hooper.” Mycroft was out the door before Molly had a chance to say goodbye, or ask him about tomorrow.</p>
<p>Molly sat down in her chair with a sigh. Her hand felt heavy as she flicked the diary pages, counting the weeks until the state visit was over, and she could get back to St Bart’s.</p>
<p>//</p>
<p>The butterflies in Molly’s stomach were making it hard to eat. Over the years she had grown accustomed to the rhythm of the NHS with its pre-scheduled breaks, signing in and out, and the requirement to be somewhere even if you didn’t ‘actually’ need to be there.</p>
<p>It was funny how something so simple as being able to eat when you were hungry instead of at a set time made her feel even more adrift. As if having no clue how to do her job wasn’t enough, now she had to deal with this. Molly was smart enough to know she had to get herself into a routine. So here she was, sitting alone at a table meant for four at the back of the canteen, forcing herself to eat at least half of the salad she had purchased. At least the food was much better than Bart’s canteen.</p>
<p>“May I join you?”</p>
<p>Startled out of her thoughts, Molly looked up to see a woman standing next to her. The woman had short blond hair and was holding a tray with her lunch on it.</p>
<p>Sun entered Molly’s heart like when someone offers to sit with you at lunch on the first day of school.</p>
<p>“Yes, of course.”</p>
<p>The conversation was light and bouncy, similar to what you would have sat next to a stranger on an extended Tube journey.</p>
<p>When both had finished their lunch, the blond woman reached into her tote bag and pulled out a white binder.</p>
<p>“I have something you will find useful created by a mutual friend. It outlines all of the procedures for creating and managing Mycroft’s schedule.”</p>
<p>“Oh my gosh,” opening the binder Molly ran her fingers down the tabs: Daily, Monthly, Quarterly, Yearly, Email, Contacts, Medical, Personal</p>
<p>Molly looked up with a shocked look on her face.</p>
<p>“There is a tab for me. Oh, is there where the pages with the outfits came from?”</p>
<p>In the middle, there was a tab ‘M.Hooper.’</p>
<p>“Are you the one who picked out all of the clothes for me? Because they are amazing. And the outfit photos. Thank you.”</p>
<p> Molly noticed the blond woman’s eyes had become sad.</p>
<p>“No I didn’t pick them out but I helped her take the photos.”</p>
<p>“Oh! This must have taken ages. Do you work for Lady Smallwood too? Who would have this information? Did his other PAs have this?” Questions were tumbling out of Molly’s mouth.</p>
<p>The blond woman took a deep breath and forced a smile before she silently gathered up her things and walked away, leaving all of Molly’s questions unanswered.</p>
<p>Looking down at the binder, Molly let out a sigh of relief— the cavalry had arrived.</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Plans Made and Plans Destroyed</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The echoing of his footsteps along the corridor was making Mycroft’s head pound. He had 17 more steps to take before he was one meter outside his office; the point at which he had to remove his sunglasses. He hoped there were at least two ibuprofen left in the blister pack in the back of his drawer. If there weren’t, he would have to make up some excuse to go out and get more. Or he could just ask Anthea-</p>
<p>Mycroft stopped in the hallway and waited for the world to stop swaying.</p>
<p>No, he couldn’t ask Anthea anymore.</p>
<p>It was a sense of duty that made his feet move again towards the office he didn’t want to go to.</p>
<p>He had to make an appearance. Lady Smallwood had made it very clear; she was concerned, and he was now being watched. Both made his blood boil.</p>
<p>Although he was loathed to admit it, having Molly assume the position of his PA was working out even better than he had imagined. At least she wasn’t as irritating as the usual civil servant lot. She was used to spending her days with little social interaction, so she puttered around in silence and let him be.</p>
<p>Yesterday was a complete write-off, and it was highly likely the rest of the week would be as well. That was the beautiful thing about Whitehall. It could move terribly slowly when necessary. So far, so good.</p>
<p>Mycroft smiled to himself as he began planning how he was going to fill this afternoon in his favourite club chair. He slipped his sunglasses into his pocket and blinked a few times to dissipate the shards of glass behind his eyes before opening his office door.</p>
<p>//</p>
<p>Opening the door to his office, Mycroft froze. He had anticipated finding a slightly deflated Molly waiting for him. The second day of providing him nothing to do would be causing her sense of guilt to increase to an uncomfortable level. He was prepared to ignore the constant mumbled apologies and the worried look on her face.</p>
<p>Mycroft was not prepared to find a tin of homemade breakfast muffins on Molly’s desk and that chap Christoph from IT sitting next to Molly eating one while he gave her a private lesson on the internal comms system.</p>
<p>“What is happening here?” muttered Mycroft through a frown.</p>
<p>“Good morning! Christoph agreed to meet me here early to help get me to get up to speed with a few things. Do you want a breakfast muffin? I made them this morning?” Molly was smiling as she held out the tin to him.</p>
<p>“No, thank you.” Mycroft’s stomach growled in protest as he walked into his office.</p>
<p>Molly followed him.</p>
<p>“My pass hasn’t come through yet,” she said brightly.  “But I have managed to recreate your calendar by going through the emails that were originally sent to Anth— your previous PA-- and finding the copies of all the meeting invites that were copied to her- I mean-, you know what I mean. Anyway. Here.” </p>
<p>Hesitantly Mycroft’s hand reached up and took the sheet of paper being offered to him.</p>
<p>“I have printed out a schedule of today's meetings. And I found loads of highlighters in my desk, so I colour coded by building where you need to be. I don’t have to do it tomorrow if you hate it.” Bubbling with pride, Molly bit her bottom lip. She was staring at him, waiting for a response.</p>
<p>Mycroft’s gaze fell to the sheet. It was challenging to keep the impressed look off his face. Unfortunately, now that he knew what he was meant to do, he couldn't justify licking his wounds in private and ignoring the world.</p>
<p>“Oh! The weekly front bench conference call is starting in 10 minutes. Here is your login code. I’ve asked for the minutes of the last three meetings to be sent to you— just to get you up to speed.”</p>
<p>There was a soft ping from Mycroft’s computer indicating the notes had arrived.</p>
<p>Mycroft took a deep breath. <em>Bugger.</em> So much for another day off. </p>
<p>“I will need a large cup of coffee. Milk and three sugars. I find the Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster to be very trying this early in the morning.”</p>
<p>Molly smiled and headed off to fill the coffee request.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. An Even Keel</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Molly smiled as she looked down at her desk diary. Friday afternoon- week three. After a few bumps, things had settled down and, although Molly didn’t dare say it out loud for fear of jinxing it, she seemed to have Mycroft’s work-life running smoothly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Picking up a folder, Molly popped her head into Mycroft’s office.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was deep in thought; his fountain pen held gently in his right hand as he scribbled notes in the margins of the file she had delivered to him 10 minutes ago. There was no question, he was back at work, and his mood had marginally improved, but something was still not right with him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As he continued to work, Molly settled her gaze on him, slipping quickly into doctor discovery mode.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had taken to unbuttoning his waistcoat in the afternoons, and the lingering smell of cigarettes was on his breath more days than not this week. She looked at the half-drunk teacup on his desk.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Molly moved further into his office.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, looks like we have finally managed to beat your schedule into submission.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes. You have done an admirable job. I am sure Lady Smallwood is very pleased.” Mycroft didn’t even bother to look up from his note-making.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How are you feeling?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who’s asking? A doctor or my PA?” Mycroft looked up, and Molly felt all the air rush out of her lungs due to the weight of his stare.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your friend.” Mycroft rolled his eyes and went back to note-taking.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I feel as I always have.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>//</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was nice to be in a warm car being driven home instead of fighting through the crowds of people on the Tube. Molly let herself relax and decided to enjoy the journey instead of checking her phone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How was your week Miss Molly?” Walter’s eyes met hers in the rearview mirror.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The usual. I am managing to get him where he needs to be, but he doesn’t seem to be any happier. How do you think Mycroft is doing?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Walter paused before answering, “Mr Holmes is as he ever is.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of course, Walter would be diplomatic.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Any plans for the weekend Miss Molly?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have got a ton of reading to do, briefing papers to sort out. I don’t think I’ll have a fully free weekend until I get back to Bart’s.” At least in the morgue, she didn’t have to bring her work home with her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mr Holmes will be spending this weekend at home should you need to reach him,” commented Walter.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I hope I don’t.” Muttered Molly under her breath.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>//</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>On Saturday evening, as Molly was cleaning up after dinner, there was a knock on her door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Opening it, she found Henry, the man from Lady Smallwood’s office standing there on her doormat holding a large manila envelope.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good evening Dr Hooper.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hi Henry, you can call me Molly.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Molly,” Henry gave her a short bow which for some unknown reason caused a flutter in her stomach.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry to bother you but this,” he held up the envelope “needs to be delivered to Mr Holmes. It’s urgent.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Looking over Henry’s shoulder, Molly could see the familiar black sedan parked at the end of her front garden with Walter in the driver's seat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why can’t you do it?” her questioning gaze returned to Henry.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lady Smallwood has made it clear you are the only one to deal directly with the old goat.” Henry flashed her a mischievous smile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The turn of phrase caused Molly to smile despite her irritation.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine,” she sighed while rolling her eyes. “Tell Walter I’ll give Mycroft a quick call to warn him we are coming and let me put some shoes on.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After turning off all the lights except the one in the hallway, Molly slipped on her shoes, put on her coat and slung her bag over her shoulder.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Walking towards the car, she rang Mycroft.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The phone rang six times before he picked up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hello, Molly” The words were slow and slightly slurred.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m coming over. There is an urgent package from Lady Smallwood I need to deliver.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Climbing into the back of the car Molly was surprised to find Henry waiting there for her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I figured I should tag along. I’ll do my best to keep you entertained. Considering I am partially responsible for ruining your evening.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>//</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Henry was easy to talk to, and the trip from central London to its posh outskirts raced by. Walter pulled into the circle drive in front of Mycroft’s house and opened the door for Molly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll wait here. Good luck.” Henry gave her a conspiratorial wink as he handed her the package.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Molly climbed the short flight of steps and knocked on the front door. After a few minutes, when there was no answer, she looked back at the car nervously. She knew the code to open the door; Mycroft had told her the time when Sherlock had locked himself inside, and she had arrived here before Mycroft had, but something told her Henry shouldn’t see her do that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She knocked again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>From deep inside the house, she could hear movement and a disheveled Mycroft slowly opened the door. It took only a glance for Molly to know Mycroft had spent most of the day drinking.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead of merely handing him the parcel, she walked past him. Standing in the hallway, she looked around.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mycroft, what has happened? Where is your housekeeper?” There was chaos everywhere—piles of mail. Cases of wine, their wooden lids opened but the bottles had not been moved to the cellar— pairs of shoes discarded by the door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not entirely sure.” He was slumped against the now-closed front door, the words slurred. “She said something about a niece having a baby.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When is she coming back?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No idea.” Mycroft had turned and wobbled back into his study, flopping into his chair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still holding the parcel, Molly made her way into the kitchen. A quick investigation found no actual food in the fridge, a bin full of takeaway containers and the laundry basket overflowing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Walking back through the house, Molly found Mycroft dozing in his chair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His eyes opened slightly, and his head lolled to the side as he reached out his hand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you need me to make you some coffee?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No. I’ll be fine.” Mycroft, clearing forcing himself awake, took the envelope.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll be leaving then.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft waved a hand in her general direction as he straightened himself behind his desk.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>//</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Everything all right? I was just about to sound the alarm,” chirped Henry as Molly slid into the back of the car.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorted,” replied Molly hoping this would stop any further questions.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The car set off on the return journey back to Molly’s flat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I feel terrible; I ruined your evening.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s fine. No worse than the days of being on call.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let me make it up to you. I know a place. We could stop for a quick drink.” There was an edge of hopefulness in Henry’s voice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It took a moment for it to sink in; that she was being asked out, right here in the back of the car that took her to work each day. Molly wondered if he had been rehearsing what to say when she was in with Mycroft.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But if you don’t want to-” Henry looked deflated.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh! No! Sorry you surprised me that’s all. Yes, a quick drink would be lovely.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Henry gave an address to Walter as Molly pushed the chaos she had found at Mycroft’s house to the back of her mind. She could figure out what to do tomorrow.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Deduction</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>A woodpecker had taken up residence in Mycroft’s skull causing not only a thudding pain but a seemingly endless supply of irritating grit collecting around his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had hoped Molly’s skills as a doctor would allow her to see his anguish causing her to fetch him a full pack of ibuprofen, and call off Monday.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The speed the stethoscope, blood pressure cuff and oximeter materialised caught him off guard. Nimble fingers removed his cufflink and rolled up his shirt sleeve before any thought of resistance had time to organise itself in his brain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>  He watched as Molly pursed her lips and frowned at him before noting down his data with a sigh. As she pulled the stethoscope from her ears and tossed it around her neck, she looked more like a doctor than she ever had done when Mycroft saw her in the morgue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> “I’m worried about your blood pressure. All those takeaways are not doing you any favours. It’s nothing we can’t get solved with a change in diet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was writing notes and speaking without looking up at him as doctors do when they are delivering bad news. Get it all out first, then deal with the fallout. Mycroft’s jaw clenched as he prepared for the rest of the changes she would be imposing on him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mrs Lockwood will be with her niece for at least another month, so I have arranged for another housekeeper with full clearance to start this week. I’ll write up a meal plan for you so the takeaways can stop.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite the apparent breach of the line between his personal and private life, the thought of drawers full of clean clothes and fresh sheets on his bed did bring a Mycroft flicker of relief tinged with happiness; which vanished with Molly’s next sentence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I noticed your fitness skills review is coming up in a few weeks. Today at 3 pm you have a session with Stuart in the gym. He said he would be happy to create an exercise plan for you to get you in shape for it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry. I thought we were having our Monday meeting, not an intervention.” Mycroft’s sarcastic words only caused a slight shrug of Molly’s shoulders, and she continued on undeterred.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to need your tracker so I can pull off the old data and get it ready for your new programme.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The extra pounds he was carrying made removing the gold band on his left ring finger a challenge. After much twisting, Mycroft eventually pressed it into her outstretched palm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Molly looked down at the ring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For years, I thought this was a wedding ring. That you and Anthea were married.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can assure you; you were not the only one.” Mycroft flexed and wiggled his left hand, getting used to the odd sensation of an empty finger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Molly’s expression became serious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened- to make her wife hate you? In the morgue, Sherlock said-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft shot Molly a pointed look before looking away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We were on a trip, deep in the field, in a dingy town on the edge of nowhere. Everyone was getting restless and one night there was an altercation of sorts. Anthea was hurt, not life-threatening but bad enough. She and Hilary had been married for less than a year. I was accused of taking unnecessary risks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And Anthea?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She knew the risks of the mission.” Mycroft rubbed the groove on his finger left by the ring. “She loved her job,” Mycroft added softly before taking a deep breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It must have been difficult for Anthea— being pulled between work and home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am sure if Hilary could lay blame for invasive cancer on me, she would.” Mycroft huffed out a sad laugh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> “It was obvious Anthea cared for you very much.” Molly stood up, with the stethoscope around her neck and holding the clipboard against her chest like a medical chart. It felt like Molly was standing over Mycroft doing her morning rounds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She would not want you to be like this. It’s time we get you sorted out.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Fight Club</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It was Thursday afternoon, and Mycroft was standing in a conference room on the fourth floor with his hands on his hips looking out over Whitehall. His stomach growled, the noise filling the empty space.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As if on cue Molly came in with a plate of cardboard disks she called oatcakes perched on a pile of folders. In her spare hand, she held a sloshing cup of, according to the label, green tea with lemon.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I thought you might be getting a little peckish.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft noticed there was a forced smile on her face as Molly set all the items down on the table and continued with her running commentary.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“All the preliminary briefing docs are done for the state visit. I have arranged the countries in alphabetical order, but I could do them by population if you would rather. I’m not sure what your preference is-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why are you doing this?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know.” Molly shrugged and gave Mycroft a questioning look. “I thought you liked order and would rather me not just dump the files here in a pile—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not that —this-” Mycroft turned fully around and made a sweeping gesture with his hand. Irritation had seeped into his voice; the weight of having a dedicated minder had finally become too much for him to bear. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t really have a choice did I.” Molly’s retort was swift. She too was annoyed, which infuriated Mycroft even more. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I doubt you offer to help every grieving soul who passes through Bart’s morgue.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Seems it’s just you. And look where that got me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What is that supposed to mean?” </span>
  <em>
    <span>The cheek of this bloody woman</span>
  </em>
  <span> thought Mycroft as he watched the fury bubble up behind her eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I spend my days terrified that I’m going to do something wrong and cause an international incident. Why? Because you are too bloody self-centred, pig-headed and broken to be even slightly pleasant to someone who actually knows how to be a PA. I am your friend, so it shouldn’t feel so hard, but it does.” Molly was busy slamming folders down on the table, sorting them into piles as the rant spilled from her lips.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The hurled words landed a blow on Mycroft hitting him square in the stomach.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I am not broken.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yea, well. It’s Lady Smallwood we have to convince.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stop taking this personally. I don’t do ‘friends’.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Or anything else for that matter,” answered Molly under her breath as she picked up each pile and tapped it loudly on the table to make them neater.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Exactly what is that supposed to mean?” Mycroft could feel his chest constrict willing her not to dredge up the past. He had done such an admiral job up to this point not thinking about it; he did not need to deal with this now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think the incident in your kitchen made it very clear you have no interest in me. Friend or otherwise.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft folded his arms across his chest in defiance or for protection. He wasn’t so sure which it was.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I thought you were an intruder.” His shoulders shrugged up to his ears, his arms still crossed in front of him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Molly rolled her eyes and threw her arms up in the air before listing off points on her fingers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You knew I was in your house. You know I need coffee in the morning. You could hear me in your kitchen. Why was it such a surprise to find me there?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Taking a deep breath through his nose, Mycroft rubbed the back of his neck with his right hand while the left dropped to the table top with only his fingertips making contact with the table. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You were wearing my shirt.” The words were delivered through gritted teeth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Because your brother had thrown up on me!” Molly hands on her hips, shouted this directly in Mycroft’s face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The calm tone of Lady Smallwood asking from the doorway, “Is everything alright?” startled the arguing pair, causing them to whirl around to face her saying an unconvincing “Yes” in unison.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was a small smirk on Lady Smallwood’s face as her gaze rested on them for a moment too long for comfort. Mycroft shifted uneasily as embarrassment bubbled up inside him, wondering how much she had heard.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, then. I shall be on my way. Mycroft. Molly.” Lady Smallwood nodded in their direction as Mycroft moved to the door and closed it with a solid thud before whirling around.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tell me. What is the appropriate reaction upon discovering a half-naked woman, fighting with my coffee machine-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Molly rolled her eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I had knickers on.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stop-” Mycroft held up his hand and turned his face away as he unsuccessfully tried to ignore the vivid memory of that morning. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He had come into the kitchen expecting to find his houseguest dressed and ready for the pair of them to check on Sherlock together. Instead he found Molly, her hair swept up into a messy bun, standing on her tiptoes, leaning over the coffee machine to check to see if there were beans in the hopper. She was wearing a standard issue grey athletic t-shirt, soft and shapeless with age, bearing the words ‘Cambridge Fencing’. It had ridden up in the back so he could see her knickers, white with little blue flowers on them, barely covering her bum. His sudden desire coupled with complete confusion as to how to handle this unfamiliar situation caused him to take the safe option. He had fled.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You hid in your office until I left. my feelings were hurt. I thought you were mad at me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Mad at you no. Terrified of you, yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>, thought Mycroft.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>An uneasy silence filled the room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Molly took a deep breath, and Mycroft watched as she recomposed herself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Here are your files. If you need anything, I have a meeting at 2 pm. Text me, and I’ll bring it up after.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What meeting? I thought you were going to sit with me while I reviewed these files,” mumbled Mycroft sheepishly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Henry and I are discussing the state event.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Henry? What’s Henry got to do with the event?” Mycroft tried to keep concern out of his voice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Molly’s hands flicked up as she shook her head. Her displeasure had returned. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Look. Lady Smallwood set up this meeting, said we need to start organising various bits. Remember, I’ve never done this before, so I need all the help I can get.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft gave a non-committal shrug of his shoulders.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“One more thing before I leave you in peace,” Molly began reading from her phone. “Tonight for dinner, I have selected poached salmon with grilled cauliflower with a green salad followed by baked apple.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Molly looked up from her phone, annoyance on her face. “Okay, I can switch it to the grilled chicken breast with an Asian salad.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I will have streak and chips followed by a pudding swimming in cream. Then three fingers of scotch before I fall into a stupor in my bed at the club. I am not lonely, I am not broken, and I do not need anyone's help.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well,” Molly’s jaw clenched as she slipped her phone back into her pocket.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Enjoy your evening.” She gave Mycroft a pointed look before walking out the conference room door, pulling it closed behind her.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. The Tale of the Wicked Godmother</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Rosie toddled back over to Mycroft with a thick board book. Clutched in the other hand was Simon, the pink elephant with white spots Mrs Hudson had given her which was her constant companion. Mycroft was sitting in John’s chair and had had the forethought to pick up Rosie’s pink and white striped blanket and drape it over his shoulder before he sat down. Glancing down at the blanket, he tried to forget that Molly had crocheted it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“All I’m saying Mycroft is, whatever she is doing seems to be working. You haven’t been able to wear that suit for ages.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft glared at John who was sitting at the desk across the room. He then schooled his expression while slipping his hands under the arms of the little girl and placing her on his lap. She wriggled Simon into position and lay her head against her blanket. Mycroft took the book from her and looked at the cover.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let’s see Rosamund, what shall you have me read to you today? The beautiful princess, her intelligent Uncle and the wicked Godmother. Excellent choice.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mycroft.” John dragged the name out, filling it full of caution.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock sitting in his chair snickered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Quiet John. I’m quite looking forward to this one,” replied Sherlock as he took a sip of tea.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft opened the book. His long, manicured finger lightly brushed over the pastel coloured line drawing of a castle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess named Rosemund who lived in a faraway land with her best friend Simon, the elephant. She had two daddies and a very clever uncle who worked very very hard to keep them all in the style they had become accustomed to.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rosie let her head lean into Mycroft as she let out a contented sigh.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft turned the page.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Now, Princess Rosie’s industrious uncle had a very irritating boss who insisted Rosie’s wicked godmother work for him.” Mycroft let his eyes grow wide, and his voice became a stage whisper. Rosie looked up, hanging on his every word.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The wicked godmother positively tortured Princess Rosie’s clever uncle. She made sure that all the cupboards in the uncle’s house were completely bare. There was not a biscuit to be found after the wicked godmother had a word with the housekeeper.” Mycroft raised his eyebrows in horror and Rosie mimicked him eliciting chuckles from both Sherlock and John, who had given up the pretence of working and was watching the show from across the room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If that weren’t bad enough, each day the wicked godmother would insist Rosie’s uncle take a twenty-minute walk over his lunch hour.” Rosie’s eyes grew wider still at this indignation.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know. Terrible isn’t it. So one day the very clever uncle had decided he had had enough and went to his club for dinner. And do you know what that wicked godmother had done? She had talked to the staff at the uncle’s club, and no matter how many times he asked, they would not serve him any chips with his steak. And they said they were all out apple crumble with custard, so Rosie’s uncle had to eat fruit salad for pudding.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rosie gave a little yawn and hugged Simon tighter.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mycroft,” laughed John, “Stop it. Rosie loves Molly.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So what happens to the wicked godmother in the end?” asked Sherlock with a gleam in his eye.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, the wicked godmother eventually annoys the uncle so much that he uses all of his powers and sends her and his irritating boss to live out their days in the Tower of London.” Mycroft closed the book quietly, mindful of the very drowsy little girl on his lap.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, can you not send her off until she finishes knitting my jumper? Ta.” John had a wry smile on his face as he scooped Rosie and her paraphernalia up. The brothers watched John leave the sitting room, and moments later heard footsteps climbing the stairs to Rosie’s room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Really?” Sherlock levelled his gaze on his older brother.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, really. That woman is ruining my life.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How? By giving you one?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rolling his eyes, Mycroft pushed himself out of the chair. While he was waiting for the kettle to boil, he opened up the ancient biscuit tin covered with profile pictures of dogs that used to live on the pantry shelf in their favourite aunt's house. With an irritated look on his face Mycroft held up the tin to show Sherlock.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This tin has not been empty since you were six years old and ate all of the jammy dodgers in one sitting.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She rang earlier,” replied Sherlock sheepishly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I am your brother.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The new guy at the morgue doesn’t understand me. He says there is no such thing as spare parts. She made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft’s shoulders dropped in defeat as he took the teabag out of his cup. Sherlock got up from his chair and walked across the kitchen to open the cupboard above the fridge. He pulled out an unopened sleeve of biscuits, slit it open with a knife and handed two to Mycroft before refilling the tin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you,” said Mycroft softly on his way back to John’s seat. He took a small bite of biscuit savouring the buttery taste.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Now tell me what is really bothering you. It’s been months. You could have come over anytime to complain. Why today?” Popping a whole biscuit into his mouth, Sherlock settled back into his chair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft took a deep breath and another nibble of biscuit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is John coming back?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s rocking Rosie. She’s about to drop this nap, but she needs it. Rocking is the only thing that keeps her half asleep.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft took a sip of tea. His eyes were focused on a point in the carpet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t think about her this morning.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It was bound to happen.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I walked into my office, and for the first time, I wasn’t startled to see Molly sitting behind her desk.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Have you heard from Hilary?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t expect I would.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Other than ensuring you are wasting away before my eyes, what else is the ever so wicked Molly doing?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft shrugged his shoulders. “She nags me incessantly. ‘Put on your coat. You need more than your umbrella in this weather.’ ‘One drink should be enough.’ ‘Get to bed early.’” Mycroft’s tone had become mocking.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She gives me handfuls of supplements each day just in case I manage to sneak half a cigarette or obtain a second pack of biscuits from a conference room hospitality tray.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock nodded silently and took a sip of tea. Mycroft continued.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“After a discussion with my doctor, my prescription for sleeping pills was revoked. I now have a bloody bedtime routine, warm bath, chamomile tea, melatonin capsule, and lights out by 10 pm. What am I a child?” Mycroft let out an annoyed huff.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A comfortable silence soon settled over the pair. A slow squeak from John’s rocking chair and muffled traffic noises drifted into the room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How did you escape her sights this afternoon?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She has yet another meeting with Henry,” Mycroft forced the name out while rolling his eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Henry? From Smallwood's office? Bit of a surprise that.“</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Quite.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After another sip of tea, Mycroft looked at his watch, startled and got up quickly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I must go. I’m late.” Taking his teacup, Mycroft went into the kitchen.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Late? For what? You always stay for at least an hour.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not today. I have a meeting with Molly.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I thought you said she was meeting with Henry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, and, I set a meeting up over the top of it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why on earth would you do that?”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He seems rather persistent. Four coffees and one lunch so far this week,” murmured Mycroft. “One can not take a chance.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Take a chance on what? That Molly is actually working on a Tuesday afternoon.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He is a Harrovian.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock winced.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Anyone watching you would think you have feelings for your PA brother mine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know me better than that,” Mycroft answered while he was busy rinsing out his teacup and putting it in the dishwasher.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Younger, thinner, the current jewel in Lady Smallwood’s office crown, quite the opposition.” Sherlock did nothing to hide the smirk on his face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Enough.” Mycroft glared at Sherlock while he pulled on his coat then exited without another word. Moments later, John appeared.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mycroft leave already?” John, holding an empty baby bottle, scanned the room before walking over to join Sherlock standing at the window.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sometimes my brother can be so obtuse,” mumbled Sherlock under his breath as the shiny black car pulled away from the curb out into the afternoon traffic. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why do you look like you are up to something? Sherlock, what are you planning?” There was urgency in John’s questions.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock laid himself down on the couch with his fingers steeped under his chin, eyes closed and refused to discuss the matter further.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. The Last Thing We Need</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Molly settled back into the soft leather seat of Mycroft’s car. Seconds later, her phone was in her hand, and she was scrolling through her notes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Phew. First reception done. By midnight I will have a list of items for you to review. Most of them you are aware of- fishing rights, visa concerns post Brexit— the usual.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sounds like nothing that can’t wait until the morning.” Mycroft’s long fingers were working at the knot in his tie- loosening it enough to undo the top button on his dress shirt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Resisting the urge to reach over and take his pulse Molly let her gaze linger on him. He looked tired, but that was to be expected. The man, who could easily go days without uttering more than a handful of words, had been locked in conversation for the past three hours. She was surprised he looked as fresh as he did.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” Mycroft’s clear observant eyes were staring at her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh. Nothing. Sorry.” Molly glanced away, hoping the darkness of the car hid the blush on her cheeks. An alert on Molly’s phone broke the uncomfortable silence.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“For fucks sake.  This is the last thing I need right now.” Molly muttered under her breath, spitting out her words in anger after reading the message.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>//</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tell me what you bought</span>
  <span>—</span>
  <span> then put Billy on the phone. Look, Sherlock</span>
  <span>—</span>
  <span> I am not stupid. You took £700 out of a cash machine tonight I know exactly what you are going to do with it.” Molly’s voice was stern, boarding on angry.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft tried not to be smug. She was in his car. Henry had been left behind at the reception without even so much as a backwards glance. With difficulty, he pushed those thoughts out of his head and turned back to monitoring the CCTV cameras outside of Baker Street, watching for any sign of Sherlock returning. The light from Mycroft’s phone provided an ominous glow to the backseat of the sedan car idling on a London side street.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right. Here’s what you are going to do. Tell Billy you want ten more pills and half as much powder. Sherlock. Listen to me. Mycroft and I have just finished the state visit kick-off reception. We are both exhausted and can’t be arsed to save you tonight if you OD so I’m telling you what you are going to do. Ten more pills, half as much power. Did you hear me? The combo will launch you into the stratosphere but keep you out of the hospital. Got it? Put Billy on the phone.” Molly put her phone on mute and asked Mycroft, “Any luck?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No sign of him yet,” Mycroft replied with a shake of his head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Molly, with frustration seeping into her voice, then repeated the recipe to Billy. She hit the disconnect button and let out a groan; her head falling heavily against the back seat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Looking up from his phone, a bemused smile crept onto Mycroft’s face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did I hear you correctly? Telling my dear little brother the best concoction to get off his trolley this evening without killing himself? You are his guardian angel.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Umm. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. He’s going to have diarrhoea for 48 hours when he comes down.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a deep breath, Molly asked, “What’re the chances he isn’t on his way home?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“87.3%,” Mycroft kept searching for any sign of his brother, scrolling through feeds from various CCTV cameras in an ever-widening area around Baker Street, and still nothing. “If he were going home, he would be on his way by now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Molly rolled her head to the left and muttered a profanity under her breath.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We can’t sit here all night. Let’s both go to your house. I can finish up some paperwork and wait for any news on Sherlock. At least we'll both be there if Sherlock needs to be brought over.” Molly glanced over at Mycroft waiting for validation of her plan.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Their eyes met and-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>there it was</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>//</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But father, I don’t understand.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mycroft,” his father stopped and leaned heavily on his walking stick, the dogs excitedly beating their tails on the ground in anticipation, their breaths swirling like smoke in the cold air.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know how to explain it any better.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So does this ‘falling in love’ business only happen in houses because I have not seen anyone collapsing in the street.” The seven-year-old Mycroft picked up the stick Red Beard had deposited at his feet and flung it into the brush, causing the trio of dogs to begin a new mad scramble.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His father sighed again and tried a different approach.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Love is not a thing. It’s a feeling. Like when it’s a chilly autumn morning and your bed is soft and warm.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The stick had appeared back at his feet. After picking it up again and tossing it for the dogs, Mycroft gave a half-hearted shrug.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So people fall in love, in autumn when they want to stay in bed?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Sigur, let out another deeper sigh. “You can fall in love anywhere. I said it’s not a thing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But the phrase ‘falling in love’ indicates that love is a thing. People don’t ‘fall in sad’—” countered the boy genius. “People do fall in lakes and holes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It— it’s complicated. Tell you what. Your mum will be home with your baby brother the day after tomorrow she’ll explain it to you.” Sigur laid his hand on his son’s shoulder and gave a squeeze.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft knew the squeeze, his father had done his best, but Mycroft had taken him to the edge of his abilities on this subject. He would just have to wait to get his question answered by someone else.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>//</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It had taken him 35 years to get his question answered but Molly had done it. One casual glance had fully explained what his father never could -- how this falling in love concept worked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft nodded silently, not trusting himself to speak, hoping Molly couldn't hear his heart pounding from her side of the car as they began the journey to his house.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>//</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The pair stood in the kitchen. Mycroft’s tie was now fully undone and hanging around his neck. His feet hurt, causing him to lean up against the countertop. His exhausted gaze came to rest on Molly. She was deep in thought, making pencil notes on the sheet of paper in front of her. It was too late, and he was far too tired to deduce her, but he noted with surprise he was very much enjoying looking at her, standing here in his kitchen at this very late hour. The wisps of her hair which had escaped from her bun at some point during the journey home were adding to the scene. He wondered if she had always been this pretty or if it was all down to the indirect lighting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shall I make coffee?” Mycroft asked half-heartedly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, you should go to bed. Kevin, the guy who usually sleeps near Camden Market, thinks one of his friends might have seen Sherlock in Chalk Farm 45 minutes ago. He’s asking around for me. I’m waiting to hear back from him before I go.” Mycroft watched Molly try to stifle a yawn.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A text message drew Molly’s attention, causing her to let out an irritated grunt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sherlock was there but didn’t stay. He said something about Stratford so Kevin’s old girlfriend Claire is now on a night bus heading over there to have a look around. Do you mind if I sleep in your guest room tonight? It will be my luck as soon as I leave, he’ll be brought here, and I’ll have to come back.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Much to Mycroft’s dismay a version of Molly standing in front of him, in his shirt, with bare feet, a messy bun, and a smile that said she was happy to see him appeared in his mind.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was one thing to watch Molly and muse about her beauty while standing in his kitchen but was something entirely different to have her sleeping under his roof. But she was right, with over an hour round trip, it made no sense for her to go back to her flat with Sherlock threatening. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course. Quite a sensible idea. Do you need anything?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh no. I’ll just sleep in the guest room. I will be wearing that old t-shirt of yours.” There was a small grin on her face. “I don’t want to freak you out like last time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft nodded slowly, unsure if Molly was flirting or trying to be helpful. Either way, he could hear his blood pounding in his ears, and it was getting increasingly more difficult to stand upright.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Son, love is like a warm, soft bed you don’t want to get out of in the morning.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll be fine. Go to bed; you must be exhausted.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Very well,” Mycroft took a deep breath and turned to go.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh! Wait. Mycroft I need you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft swallowed hard and turned back around.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My dress, can you unzip me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Molly was facing away from Mycroft slightly bent over the counter.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The sensation was overwhelming as he walked back towards her. It was as if he had stepped over an invisible precipice right here in the middle of his kitchen. Mycroft was now light headed, feeling like he was floating and falling at the same time.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With shaking hands, he undid the small hook and eye and pulled the zipper down to the small of her back, exposing the band of her black bra in the process. The fabric released with a sigh, sliding down her arms.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Quickly Molly held the dress up to her front and cast a withering glance at Mycroft over her shoulder before turning back to the paperwork.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>In his mind, Mycroft imagined Molly gasping as his hand slipped into her open dress, coming to rest on her waist as he turned her gently around to face him. Holding her close, he watched as her gaze flicked between his eyes and his lips before the tip of her tongue parted her own lips. He pulled her up to him, almost lifting her off her feet entirely before his mouth gently touched hers, sending a surge of electricity through him.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mycroft? You okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry” he muttered under his breath as he quickly turned and headed upstairs to his bedroom.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Damn if all those ancient scribes weren’t right; falling was indeed the correct descriptor.</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Day After the Night Before</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Mycroft could hear Molly in the kitchen, and his heart quickened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had spent much of last night wondering what was going to happen this morning. And he had decided he was not going to let the next opportunity slip away. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and entered his kitchen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look, I’m fully dressed.” Molly held up her arms and gave a little twirl before opening the fridge to replace the milk bottle in her hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Disappointment washed over Mycroft briefly. He waited for relief to appear, but it didn’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How did you sleep?” Molly handed Mycroft a cup of coffee.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft lied.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine.” The truth was despite his exhaustion last night Mycroft had laid in the middle of his bed for two hours before he finally fell asleep, all the while fighting the urge to knock on his guest room door and invite Molly into his bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>”You?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like a baby. That bed is so comfortable. I could stay in it all day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To cover up the fact that this utterly innocent comment had knocked the wind out of him and now he couldn’t remember how to breathe Mycroft ducked into the pantry in search of muesli.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I received a message from Miss Minter this morning. She wishes to have lunch with me to continue our discussion from last night. I told her I needed to check my schedule and then would confirm,” Mycroft muttered absentmindedly as he retrieved a cereal bowl.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A smirk settled on Molly’s face as she sat down at the long farmhouse table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, yea? Wasn’t she the one who was monopolising you last night?” Molly brought the oversized mug with flowers on it up to her lips. The sturdy mug, three times larger than the delicate china cups favoured by Mycroft, had appeared six months ago after Molly had spent 27 hours awake keeping Sherlock alive. It had arrived in the post two days after she left. The packing note read, “I can’t spend another night drinking out of your dinky cups. Sorry. Molly xxx”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would not go so far as to say that.” Mycroft had now progressed to spooning yoghurt into his bowl.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still with a smile on her face, Molly checked Mycroft’s schedule on her phone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yep. Should be fine. It’s Saturday, perfect for a leisurely lunch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft didn’t like what the gleam in Molly’s eye insinuated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Make the reservation for three people.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?” The piece of avocado toast had been paused before reaching Molly’s mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should join- in case- to take notes,” Mycroft mumbled between mouthfuls of food hoping Molly didn’t notice he was making this up on the fly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Molly gave Mycroft a pointed look.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do not think Miss Minter is planning on doing much business at this lunch. Besides, I’m busy this afternoon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Doing what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am going over to check on Sherlock then Henry and I are going out for a run.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft eyebrows raised as he repeated, “A ‘run’?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, he’s training for a marathon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft sat up straighter and pulled in his stomach. Suddenly he felt obese and regretted agreeing to lunch with Miss Minter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What time is this ‘date’?” It was challenging to keep the jealousy out of Mycroft’s voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“2 pm”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words drove a thin dagger into Mycroft’s heart. He was expecting Molly to refute the use of the word date, but she hadn’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Be careful. Make sure he isn’t using you to get to me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks, dad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His stomach clenched in pain as if more than mere words had struck him. And he remembered why he hated relationships so much.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you really need me to go to lunch with you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I do.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes I, really, really do.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Molly was quiet and looked like she was resigning herself to her abrupt schedule change.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay. Fine. I’ll cancel my run, but then we both go over to harass Sherlock after lunch. Brian, the young guy who sleeps on the bench outside St. James tube station, dropped Sherlock off at Baker Street around 5:45 am.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Excellent idea.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve got some reports for us to review. I’ll wait for you in your study.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft sat alone at his kitchen table, finishing his breakfast. He knew he was biding his time. Molly would eventually go back to the morgue. Her charms wasted on the dead. And he would be left alone in his office to suffer through some semi-competent staffer who didn’t really give a rats ass about him past what he is going to write in an upcoming review.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wondered how long he had? A few days, maybe a week at most? He stared out the window at the chestnut tree, an unseen breeze slightly ruffling its branches, wishing he could create some reason for Molly to stay as his assistant longer.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Struggling with Monday Morning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Standing in front of the mirror, Mycroft watched himself flip and twist his tie into his usual knot, his hands moving at half speed. As his arms hung limply at his sides, he deduced himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shoulders dipped, weighed down by the relentless march of time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sadness around the eyes, knowing in only a few days Molly would return to her former life and he would be relegated to only seeing her on sporadic visits dictated by Sherlock's drug habit or snipers picking off his staff.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looked himself in the eye. </span>
  <em>
    <span>This is your own fault.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The truth hurt, and he flicked his gaze away, hoping the dull pain in his heart would stop before he reached his office.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>//</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Molly was cheery today, which, Mycroft noted, made him feel exponentially worse. She was sitting across his desk from him, the scent of freshly washed hair, apple and coconut, billowing around her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In an effort of self-preservation, Mycroft’s eyes settled anywhere but on her. Molly was wearing a jersey wrap dress which clung to her in all the right places, leggings and tall boots. Hardly an outfit chosen to seduce-- which meant Molly was utterly unaware of the effect it was having on him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How was your weekend?” Mycroft muttered half-heartedly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Look at you! Making small talk, well done!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft flicked an eyebrow up at her but kept his snide comment to himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “Sorry. I’m just surprised you’ve never asked me that before. I had a lovely weekend. Thank you. How about you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> //</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Saturday had been painful.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Molly had been right. Clearly, Miss Minter had been hoping to flirt with him, and she tried, she really did.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Miss Minter’s excited expression was momentarily dulled when, after arriving at the lavish Chinese in Paddington Basin, she had found Mycroft </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>Molly waiting for her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But she had not been deterred.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The dim-sum had provided Miss Minter with ample opportunities to thrust oriental delicacies expertly pinched between two chopsticks towards Mycroft’s mouth. A few forced coughs and apologies about recently getting over a cold had slowed, but not stopped, the offers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>While waiting for the cheque, with Miss Minter pulling out all the stops and suggesting the afternoon carry on— </span>
  <em>
    <span>without Molly— </span>
  </em>
  <span> at a local coffee shop Mycroft’s heart did indeed begin to race, but it was due to Molly’s foot brushing up against his leg while fishing under the table for her dislodged shoe.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Thankfully he was able to truthfully tell the dauntless Miss Minter that he and Molly were travelling directly to their next meeting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Molly had tried to say “I told you so” while on the way to Baker Street, but Mycroft had expertly steered the conversation to a different topic. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They had made a formidable pair in Baker Street. Sherlock, still suffering the effects from his night on the town was easily coerced into sitting still long enough that Molly was able to get a banana bag IV into him in order to correct some of the imbalances created by his recent drug binge.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft had offered Molly dinner, and she declined; a late afternoon slice of cake and tea at Speedy’s before the pair went their separate ways was accepted.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> Molly didn’t say she was off to see Henry, but then again, Mycroft didn’t need words to confirm what he already knew.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>//</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>If Saturday had been painful, Sunday was excruciating.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft had managed to rattle around his empty house until 10:30 am before he rang Molly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had only made it that long by accidentally on purpose putting his phone in his robe pocket while getting dressed, then getting stuck into a crossword to distract himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When the crossword was finished, it became impossible to keep the pressing question-- which only Molly could answer-- out of his mind, and his phone had been found after a brief search of the house.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She didn’t pick up, so he left her a voicemail while standing in his upstairs hallway. He then spent the next seven minutes staring at his phone before the text arrived foiling his plans for the rest of the afternoon.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Molly was busy and would look for the report on the fishing regulations from the 1978 talks tomorrow - not come over and help him search for them this afternoon as he had asked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had flung himself very dramatically on the sofa in the conservatory. His display proved not very satisfying without an audience.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>So this is it. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Mycroft thought to himself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I can drink what I want but all I want is a bottle of water. I can eat what I want, but all I want is a salad. I could lay here all day, but the weather is too nice, I’ll be out for a walk within the hour. I don’t want to be here by myself.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His phone buzzed in his pocket for a brief moment his heart swelled at the thought it was Molly, letting him know she had changed her mind.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Miss Minter” proclaimed the phone lock page. Mycroft hit the ignore button and a few moments later deleted the voicemail without listening to it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>And the one person I want to share my afternoon with is sharing it with someone else</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>//</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine. My weekend was fine.” Mycroft replied in what he hoped was a convincing voice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you sure? You are looking a bit tired this morning. Did you have a visitor last night?” The sparkle in Molly’s eyes was unsettling.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft changed the subject.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“After a significant state visit, I generally take a short holiday.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you want me to book somewhere for you?” Molly looked intently at Mycroft with her pen poised over her paper, waiting for instructions.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Holiday options scrolled through Mycroft’s mind.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Molly sitting by a fire in a chalet.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Molly riding in a convertible wearing oversized sunglasses and a silk headscarf.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Molly walking along a beach.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Molly and Henry running along a beach while Mycroft watched them</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Humph.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My usual will be fine. Paris. The Eiffel Tower suite at the George V.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Molly smiled “A suite, huh? Will it be big enough for two?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It is very spacious” Mycroft looked confused.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do I need to make gentle enquiries on Miss Minter’s availability for this weekend?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft gave Molly a pointed look.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t you dare.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hmmm. Maybe I need a holiday after this?” wondered Molly aloud.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Molly’s phone pinged and reading the message a smile settled on her face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>An uncomfortable tightness in his chest appeared as he wished Molly would look like that when she got a text from him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Texting you before 8 am. At this rate, I shall be expecting a happy announcement before the end of the week.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stop being such a miserable old sod,” Molly replied without looking up from her phone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mycroft, if I didn’t know better, I would think you are a bit jealous.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Of someone, ten years younger, and 10kg lighter </span>
  </em>
  <span>floated through his mind.</span>
  <em>
    <span> Of course I’m bloody jealous.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shaking his head, Mycroft tried to look nonchalant. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You be you Mycroft," sighed Molly. "</span>
  <span>You can not ruin my day, no matter how hard you try.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a brief moment, Mycroft let his mind off its leash: He saw Henry falling prey to a professional escort sent to seduce him, the disgrace of him turning out to be an enemy agent or an in-depth background check finding a wife and three children in Manchester. The result was the same, a distraught Molly sobbing in Mycroft’s arms while she mumbled thanks for saving her from such a miscreant.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mycroft?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Molly’s comment drew him back into the presence of his office</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I said I would go pick up your suit for tomorrow night. Do you have any other errands you need doing — I’d like to get any loose ends tied up before the event.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No. I’m fine,” Mycroft lied. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. The Event</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“She did remarkably well. It’s hard to believe it was her first state event.” Lady Smallwood with one swallow left in her wine glass had come to sit down next to Mycroft who had just finished chatting with the First Minister of Scotland.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, well done to all of us.” He raised his nearly empty glass and chinked it with Lady Smallwood’s glass before taking another sip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft glanced over to his left where Molly was engaged in an animated conversation with a member of the cabinet and Henry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The now familiar green coil of jealousy was twisting in Mycroft’s stomach as he watched the two men laughing at something Molly had said. After taking another sip of his wine, Mycroft shook his watch out from under his jacket sleeve. It was 22:45. Carriages were at 23:00, which meant he had two options.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could stay and witness the unbearable sight of Henry slipping his hand around Molly’s waist. The hopeful look as Henry whispered in her ear. The nervous smile on Molly’s face and her small nod of consent in response to said suggestion. Followed by the pair slipping eagerly off into the London night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or he could leave now and discover tomorrow if his suspicions had been correct.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was seeing Henry laugh and Molly slip her arm into his that clinched it. Mycroft pushed his chair back with a sigh and bid Lady Smallwood farewell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was going home to lick his wounds.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. And Then She Was Gone</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The only sound in Lady Smallwood’s office was the crisp scrape of papers as she flicked through the file folder open in front of her. Her eyes flicked up and stared at Mycroft. He was sitting directly in front of her, just as he had been three months ago, but this time the chair next to him was empty.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Job done.” Lady Smallwood flipped the folder closed and pushed her chair back from her desk. “It’s a pity Molly isn’t here. I wanted to express my deep gratitude to her.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft shifted slightly in his chair at the mention of Molly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yesterday morning he had arrived at his office to find her desk empty and a letter informing him of her return to St. Bart’s effective immediately. It was courteous but direct. She had done what was requested of her, and she wanted to go back to her old life; sooner rather than later. Mycroft had rung her seven times since finding the letter, and each time it rolled to voicemail. The afternoon had been spent debating if he should send her flowers as a token of his thanks, but the thoughts hadn’t turned into action.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She wished to return to the morgue immediately, and since she had completed the task set to satisfaction, I saw no reason to stop her.” Mycroft’s voice was void of any expression.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pursing her lips, Lady Smallwood pushed herself back in her chair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Perhaps, if you would have asked, she would have stayed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I saw no reason to stop her,” Mycroft replied a second time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lady Smallwood widened her gaze to take in the clock sitting in the corner of her desk. As she watched the second hand clicked straight up, and the anticipated knock on the door arrived.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The air in the room turned cold as soon as Mycroft watched Henry enter the office. The older man’s eyes stayed on the younger man as Henry cautiously walked into the room and approached Lady Smallwood’s desk with three folders.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Here are the reports you requested, ma’am.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you, Henry.” Lady Smallwood forced a smile, as she noted Mycroft’s knuckles were going white as he gripped the chair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then Mycroft was standing, his head turning from side to side; agitated. Using her right foot, she triggered the silent alarm. Her security guards wouldn’t break down her door, but they would be waiting outside in case this escalating situation spiralled out of control.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If we are finished-” said Mycroft through gritted teeth. Lady Smallwood recognised that look. Mycroft was holding it together, but only just. She nodded.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Henry had taken a step back and was watching Mycroft as someone would regard a venomous snake stumbled upon during a walk; hoping it would slither off into the underbrush without incident.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Unfortunately, Henry hadn’t looked away fast enough, and that was all it took. Mycroft took two steps towards the younger man, invading his personal space.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “Mycroft-” Lady Smallwood stood, drawing out the name as a warning.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Be good to her. She is one of a kind. This is not a warning. This is an order.” The soft words hissed from Mycroft before he moved towards the door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Blinking rapidly and visibly swallowing his nervousness Henry took a deep breath. “We aren’t together anymore.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The hand that had been heading to the door handle stopped six inches from its target. Mycroft looked over his shoulder.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What did you say?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft was frowning, now an air of curiosity surrounded him as he moved back into the room to stare directly at Henry.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lady Smallwood noted, if she had put her hand on Henry’s cheek, it would have been hot to the touch. Mycroft was also scrutinising the embarrassed blush.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lady Smallwood shouted in her mind at Henry. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Start talking boy. The longer you wait. The worse it is going to be. </span>
  </em>
  <span>As if in response, Henry looked up at Lady Smallwood and began to speak in halting sentences.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That night. After the event. We were in my flat- and things started to happen-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>The fingers of Mycroft’s right hand flexed and balled into a fist.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Get on with it!</span>
  </em>
  <span> Screamed Lady Smallwood in her head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Molly said your name, not mine and- she- it’s over.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Quickly moving two steps closer Mycroft jabbed a finger in Henry’s chest, “If you are having a joke at my expense--” The words were spat through gritted teeth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not! I swear it’s true!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rounding the desk, Mycroft sat himself in Lady Smallwood’s chair and pulled her keyboard to him and began typing away. All protests are brushed off.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Seconds later, the computer screen was filled with a black and white image of Henry’s sitting room. Molly is sitting on his couch. Taking a deep breath, Mycroft fast forwards the video until Molly is racing out of the flat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shooting Henry a dirty look, Mycroft reverses the recording and once he sees Henry and Molly sitting together he hits the play button.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The video makes bile rise in his throat and Mycroft’s hands grip the chair. It is difficult to tamp down the urge to fly over the desk and throttle Henry as he watches the pair on the couch:</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-Henry’s trousers are undone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-Molly’s shirt is open; Henry massages her breast over her dress.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-Henry pushes Molly’s dress up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft flicks his gaze up to scowl at Henry. Henry and Lady Smallwood are staring at each other as soft moans fill the room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then it happens.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There is a moan wrapped around his name. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh yes-- Mycroft.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Followed by an embarrassed pause before Molly is apologising, while hurriedly looking for her shoes. “Oh my god. I’m sorry. Sorry, I can't- I need to go— ” Molly is apologising, and looking for her shoes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft didn’t even bother to turn off the CCTV playback before he fled from Lady Smallwood’s office.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. It's Not Nothing</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Taking another large sip of tea from the paper takeaway cup, Molly picked up the next stack of papers, skimmed the text on the top sheet and then placed it in the appropriate pile: bin, file, read.</p><p>In fairness, Mike had done an excellent job keeping the paperwork waiting for her to a minimum, but of course, there was bound to be some backlog when she returned.</p><p>Molly heard her office door open, but with her attention on an interesting article about post-mortem fractures, she didn’t look up immediately.</p><p>When her gaze eventually moved from the paper to the doorway, she found Mycroft silently observing her.</p><p>She stared back as her mind filled with questions, and her stomach filled with dread.</p><p>
  <em> What is he doing here? This is the last thing I needed today.  </em>
</p><p>Molly had dedicated yesterday to wallowing in self-pity: spending the whole day under the duvet, eating rubbish and weeping while watching Netflix. With a single word she had destroyed the one good relationship that had come along in ages and embarrassingly admitted to the secret crush she had harboured for years. </p><p>After a long chat on the phone with Meena, Molly had hatched a plan: resign instantly, return to the safety of the morgue ASAP, stay as far away from Whitehall as she possibly could for the next six months and bribe Sherlock to stay clean until she was ready to deal with Mycroft again. Now, less than 48 hours in, her scheme was unravelling before her eyes. </p><p>Mycroft was wearing his dark grey suit, the one she picked up from the dry cleaner last week. His tie, deep red with a grey fleur-de-lys pattern, was one of his favourites. He regularly referred to it as his “power tie.” Whatever the reason he was here, he meant business. </p><p>
  <em>Fuck. </em>
</p><p>Forcing a smile onto her face Molly tried to be lighthearted. </p><p>“Don’t tell me your new PA has gotten your tea request wrong already.”</p><p>Mycroft didn’t respond. He just stood there- looking at her- sucking all of the air out of her office making it almost impossible for Molly to breathe.</p><p>“Come on Mycroft,” brightness gone, she was now pleading. “I did what was asked. You are back among the living, and I need to get back to the dead.”</p><p>The blood in Molly’s veins began to pump with more urgency as the still silent Mycroft slowly and deliberately walked towards her, rounding the side of her desk. His steel-blue eyes never leaving her.</p><p>Hesitantly Mycroft held out a hand to her, causing Molly’s heart to pound so hard she was sure its thump was filling the room. Slipping her hand into his, it was warmer than she anticipated and a small gasp escaped her lips as he pulled her up to standing.</p><p>Standing this close, she smelled coffee, his aftershave and a whiff of adrenaline. Instantly Molly wondered if there is something wrong.</p><p>His hands trembled as he placed them on either side of her head, his thumbs stroking her cheeks as he turned her face upwards. </p><p>Heart pounding in her chest Molly swallowed hard.</p><p>“Mycroft, what are you doing?”</p><p>His gaze, soft as a caress, remained intent on her as he pushed a rogue strand of hair behind her ear.</p><p>“Why didn’t you tell me?” his voice was barely above a whisper.</p><p>“Because it’s nothing.” Embarrassment welled up inside her, made worse knowing he would be able to feel the blush rising on her cheeks. “It will probably go away- eventually,” she sputtered, her eyes glancing away from him.</p><p>“Don’t lie to me.”</p><p>Mycroft bent down, his lips brushing hers with the lightest touch sending the pit of her stomach into a wild swirl.</p><p>When Molly’s eyes fluttered open, she found a relieved smile on Mycroft’s face. </p><p>
  <em> Of course, he had been rehearsing this on the way over. </em>
</p><p>Mycroft’s glace landed on the desk filled with paperwork.</p><p>“You aren’t on the rota until next week. Why are you here?”</p><p>“Yea, well, just trying to keep my mind off things.”</p><p>“Is it working?” there was a smirk on his face, clear he already knew the answer.</p><p>“Not really because the thing I’m trying not to think about has just kissed me.”</p><p>Feeling the softness of the expensive suit fabric, Molly’s hands settled on Mycroft’s chest as she firmly pushed him away. He took a step back but didn't go too far. </p><p>“But you aren’t interested.”</p><p>“Correction, I wasn’t interested.”</p><p>“And now?”</p><p>Molly watched Mycroft take a deep breath before giving her a brief nod. She couldn't keep the smile from settling on her face as a warm glow flowed through her before she looked over at the clock hanging on the wall.</p><p>“Although, your timing needs a little bit of work,” Molly gave a snort. “You’re flying to Paris today. In fact, you are late. Your plane takes off in 30 minutes. So you go. Enjoy your holiday. You’ve earned it. I’ve waited this long. I can wait another week.” Reaching up Molly stroked Mycroft’s cheek.</p><p>“Come with me,” there was a hopeful tone to the words.</p><p>“Isn’t that a bit premature? I mean, it’s only been, what- 10 minutes-” Molly was shaking her head.</p><p>“There is plenty of room for two in the suite. And you are free to return home at any point.” Mycroft’s hand started on Molly’s shoulder, trailed down her arm and his fingers entwined with hers while he was talking. “But in my opinion the sooner we untangle what is going on between us, the better.”</p><p>Molly sighed and looked away flustered. Shaking off Mycroft’s hand, she began quickly tidying up her desk.</p><p>“Don’t think just because this happened,” Molly made a sweeping hand gesture in the air, “that it is any indication about what is going to happen in that hotel room.”</p><p>“Absolutely,” responded Mycroft solemnly. “I will do my best not to let the gourmet food, magnificent wine or opulent surroundings dissolve your resolve.” Mycroft held open Molly’s coat.</p><p>“Cheeky monkey.” Molly rolled her eyes as she slipped her hand through the elbow offered. </p><p>The pair walked out of the St Bart’s Morgue with Mycroft’s umbrella clicking happily on the corridor floor.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Credit where Credit is Due</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A week later Mycroft’s car pulled up outside of Molly’s flat. After bidding farewell to Walter the pair walked up the short path to Molly’s front door. </p><p>As soon as Molly opened the door, she heard the bags drop and as she reached for the light-switch felt Mycroft’s hand grasp her wrist this time the fingers sliding up her hand until the fingers laced together.</p><p>“If you turn on the light it means we’re home,” muttered Mycroft as he pressed her up against the wall and nuzzled her neck. “I’m not ready.”</p><p>The giggle Mycroft found so enchanting filled the hallway.</p><p>“What have you done with Mycroft-- the man who hates holidays?”</p><p>Mycroft humphed and drew her into a hug before letting her go.</p><p>“I am still here. And now I hate holidays more than ever.”</p><p>“Well, if my memory serves me right, you enjoyed certain parts of last week very much.”</p><p>Molly laid her hands on Mycroft’s chest, biting her lip to keep her huge grin in check.</p><p>“True. But as of tomorrow morning, I have to share you with the wider world. And I don’t like that at all.”</p><p>Molly rolled her eyes and smiled, putting her hands on either side of his head and arching up on her tiptoes, she planted a kiss on his lips with a pop.</p><p>“You have had me for three months!”</p><p>Mycroft gave her a pointed look.</p><p>“Only a week to myself.”</p><p>“Yes, well, the dead of London need me. And you— well I guess you will have a new PA to torment tomorrow. That will be fun for you.”</p><p>“Don’t remind me.” Mycroft let his overcoat slide down his arms, and he hung it up on the rack by the door. Molly had toed off her shoes and was heading for the kitchen.</p><p>“Tea?” was called over her shoulder.</p><p>“Yes, please.” Mycroft took Molly’s case into her bedroom then went into the sitting room to wait for her.</p><p>After the tea was made Molly headed into the sitting room and found Mycroft pale and wide-eyed, staring at the white binder sitting in the middle of her coffee table. He looked like he had seen a ghost.</p><p>“What’s wrong?” Molly put the mugs down next to the binder. A flicker of apprehension caused her pulse to quicken.</p><p>“Where did you get that?” Mycroft’s voice was tense as he gestured towards the binder like it was something to be feared. </p><p>Suddenly Molly was filled with dread.</p><p>“Um— the first day at work, when you were so obnoxious, and I went out to lunch. A woman came and sat with me. She asked me how things were going with you, and I said it was pretty rough. She reached into her bag and handed this to me. I guess I should have told you about it, but it had all the answers and I didn't want you to be mad. I just wanted to do a good job.”</p><p>“What did she look like?”</p><p>“Thin. Short blond hair. Not too tall. I asked her if she was the one who had bought the clothes that were waiting for me the first day, because there were sheets of photos with the clothes made into outfits. And there was a tab in the binder with my name on it. She said it wasn’t her but she helped take the photos.”</p><p>Mycroft stood and headed for the door. Molly followed.</p><p>“Mycroft? Is everything okay? What is wrong? Where are you going?”</p><p>With his coat on Mycroft turned back to Molly.</p><p>“I have an urgent errand I need to run but I’ll return as soon as I can.” He was out the door before Molly could say goodbye.</p><p> //</p><p> Mycroft placed a large bouquet of flowers on the table, exactly where the white binder had laid during his last visit with Anthea. </p><p>“I have to admit, Anthea had led me to believe you were much sharper than this. Three months to figure it out.” The thin woman with short blond hair who was not too tall, tisk-tisked with a teasing smile on her face as she brought two cups of tea to the table.</p><p>“Hillary, I am utterly mortified.” Mycroft sat down and took a sip of tea. “Much of the last three months of my life has been orchestrated from beyond the grave. How could I be so blind?” </p><p>“Grief,” replied Hillary clearing her throat and getting up to get a tissue.</p><p>Mycroft let out a deep sigh. </p><p>“Who- how-?”</p><p>“Lady Smallwood and Sherlock with a little help from me. But in fairness all credit goes to her. We simply carried out Anthea’s plan,” explained Hillary.  </p><p>Mycroft’s gaze flicked to the window; there were birds playing in the nearby plane tree making its branches sway. His heart ached. He missed Anthea, and he wanted to get back to Molly.</p><p>“There is not a day goes by that I don’t miss her,” he said quietly. “She was right about Molly but no one will ever replace my- our- Anthea.”</p><p>“No. No one will.” Hillary laid a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder, and he put his hand over hers, giving it a squeeze.</p><p> </p><p>THE END</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>